


Good Omens Celebration

by HopeCoppice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Crowley's Century-Long Nap (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Good Omens Celebration, Gratuitous Oscar Wilde References, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Maggot Husbands, Moving In Together, Other, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Pre-Fall (Good Omens), Short fic collection, ineffable husbands, mild blasphemy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:54:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 19,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23945764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: A collection of short stories for the Good Omens Celebration, based on the prompt list from Tumblr (link inside).Complete!
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale & Adam Young (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub & Dagon (Good Omens), Crowley & Hastur (Good Omens), Crowley & Warlock Dowling, Hastur & Ligur (Good Omens), Hastur/Ligur (Good Omens), Warlock Dowling & Greasy Johnson & Adam Young
Comments: 240
Kudos: 117
Collections: Good Omens Celebration





	1. In The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> The prompts I'm working from can be found here: https://sameoldsorceress.tumblr.com/post/616959317553315840/goodomenscelebration-here-is-the-primary

In the beginning was the word, and the word was-

“Bollocks!” 

Crowley emerged from behind the bookcase Aziraphale had just been rearranging - or, more accurately, piling books on top of in the hope of finding space for them later - clutching the back of his own head with one hand and a second-edition copy of  _ The Canterville Ghost _ in the other.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Crowley. I simply don’t seem to have room for all these books.”

“Yes, well, my head isn’t additional storage space. Can’t you just… you know…” He snapped his fingers vaguely, and Aziraphale shook his head.

“I don’t want to push my luck too much, not this soon after Armageddon arma-didn’t.” He smiled hopefully at Crowley, hoping he’d get a laugh as reward for his poor attempt at humour. Crowley groaned, which was better, and tossed the book aside, which wasn’t.

“Well, then. There’s only one possible solution.”

“Oh, would you?” But Crowley seemed to have collapsed in on himself, somehow, the way he only did when he was overthinking, or worrying, or - quite possibly - panicking. “What- what’s wrong?” Aziraphale turned to scan the shop for threats, and when he turned back Crowley was holding  _ The Canterville Ghost  _ again, clinging to it as if it was all that would keep him upright. “Crowley?”

“You should get a new place.” Crowley paused to draw a great gasp of a breath, like a man who had just stopped drowning and hadn’t quite realised it yet. “Wme.”

“I’m sorry?” That- that garbled noise had sounded like- like- could he really have interpreted it right? Aziraphale almost didn’t dare to hope for it. He almost didn’t dare to ask. “What was that?”

“With… with me. Maybe. If you like. We could. Ngk. I dunno. Share.”

Aziraphale reached out and rescued  _ The Canterville Ghost  _ from Crowley’s anxious, fidgeting fingers, clutching it to his chest as if to shield himself from possible rejection. 

“Crowley- are you asking me to live with you?”

“Nnnnnyeah, maybe, but only if you-”

“Yes.” Aziraphale beamed. “Yes, I’d be very honoured.”

Crowley’s brain, it seemed, shut down shortly after the words left Aziraphale’s mouth, which the angel generously attributed to the bump on the head he’d suffered. A strange, delayed reaction to being attacked by a relatively slim volume. And, if his condition only seemed to get worse as Aziraphale pulled him closer for a kiss, Aziraphale could overlook that too.

It was time for a new beginning.


	2. Contrast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one sort of goes with the previous chapter, and it'll be continued tomorrow. I think the first four or five chapters go together, actually. Enjoy!

The thing about Crowley and Aziraphale was that they were very different. Oh, there was the angel-demon thing, that minor point of theological difference regarding the general dickishness of God, but there were a thousand other, trivial, desperately important differences. Aziraphale wore _tartan,_ for Somewhere’s sake. And _bow ties_. And, most crucially of all, his personal style of interior design was best described as ‘well-meaning grandmother who inherited a long-established antique shop from an eccentric uncle some time around the turn of the last century’. Everything was haphazard, and cluttered, and _chintzy._ Crowley, on the other hand, he liked things neat and minimalist, with clean lines and hidden doors. Aziraphale liked small rooms packed with improbable numbers of belongings; Crowley liked the big, empty effect with plenty of light.

This hadn’t been a problem for most of their existence, because they had lived in separate homes with separate belongings, but now that they were looking at houses together - Crowley pinched himself discreetly just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming that - it was proving something of a stumbling block.

“As you can see, the ground floor has an open-plan layout, and the rooms upstairs are quite sizeable, too,” the estate agent pointed out hopefully. She had shown them three places she thought they’d like already, and they hadn’t agreed on one yet.

“Oh, Crowley, it’s _very_ big. I feel quite lost in all this space.”

“It’d be different with our furniture in it,” Crowley pointed out, but he already knew this wasn’t their home. If Aziraphale didn’t feel at ease in it, Crowley wasn’t going to press the issue.

Honestly, he was beginning to wonder if he shouldn’t give in the next time Aziraphale set eyes on a collection of poky little rooms with tiny windows. He could find some sort of roof space for his plants, perhaps, and maybe a little miraculous enlargement on _one_ room might go unnoticed or unremarked upon. He could make one room the way he liked it, and hole up in there when all the clutter got to be too much. It would all be fine, because Aziraphale would be there with him. Perhaps they were just too different to find a home that would be perfect for both of them.

“Well, if you really like it, Crowley-” It seemed Aziraphale was thinking along the same lines.

“No. No, it’s- you’re right. Bit too cavernous.” He smiled tightly at the exhausted estate agent. “Do you happen to have one more option to show us?”

There was a long pause as their estate agent flipped over a few pages on her clipboard, frowning.

“Er… well, there’s one more I can show you, but it’s listed with one of our other branches, on the coast. I take it you want to stay near London?”

“Well, it can’t hurt to look.” Aziraphale beamed at her with that smile that never failed to make Crowley’s heart stutter. “That is, if you wouldn’t mind taking us out there, Ms Cross?”

“Please, it’s Felicity. And I’d be happy to. Keeps me out of the office!” She smiled wearily at them. “I’ll text you the address, Mr Crowley, just so you have it, but you can follow me. It’s about an hour and a half’s drive, perhaps two hours if we hit traffic.”

“That’s fine. We won’t.” Crowley took one last look around the house they were standing in - no good for Aziraphale, so no good for him - and headed for the car without further ado.

Behind him, he could hear Aziraphale apologising for his rudeness, for the inconvenience, for the fact that they just couldn’t seem to agree on anything. No doubt this next property would be the same, but at least he’d get to spend an hour or so pushing the Bentley to her limits before the inevitable disappointment. 

He and Aziraphale really were very different.


	3. Unexpected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this connects to the previous two and, I believe, the next two. Enjoy!

Life has a way of surprising people, sometimes. It certainly surprised Aziraphale when the Bentley screeched to a halt outside a quaint, cosy little cottage in the South Downs and Crowley’s first words were, “Oh, that’s  _ lovely _ .”

“Really?” Aziraphale frowned, searching for any hint of insincerity in Crowley’s expression. Finding none, he turned back to the cottage and allowed himself to really take it in. “It is rather, isn’t it?”

“I’ve got a good feeling about this, angel.”

“Yes. Yes, so have I.”

Poor Felicity - who was about to get a miraculous payrise she didn’t see coming - unlocked the door almost gingerly before stepping aside to let them in. She followed them through the little hallway and into the first room with the air of someone tiptoeing through a minefield, but as Aziraphale looked around himself all he could see was how wonderful Crowley’s plants would look in the room, taking full advantage of the large bay window’s light.

“Angel, look, you could fit so many bookcases in here.” Crowley was already in the next room, separated from the front room only by a wide arch. They could each be in their elements and still be together.

“This is perfect,” Aziraphale agreed, “let’s see the rest.”

The kitchen was fine; neither of them would use it much, in all likelihood, but if they did decide to try their hands at baking or gourmet meal preparation, it would certainly suffice. Across the hall was a room currently set out like a study, but which Aziraphale thought would be just right for sitting in of an evening. That led out to a conservatory - more like a greenhouse than a sunroom, really - and Crowley’s eyes went wide behind his glasses as he looked at it.

“This would be yours, wouldn’t it?” Aziraphale smiled, and Crowley ducked his head.

“‘S nice.”

Upstairs, there were two large bedrooms, and Aziraphale immediately began converting one into additional library space in his mind. He turned to see Crowley smiling, not at the rooms, but at Aziraphale. There was something a little hesitant in his expression, though.

“You don’t like it?” Aziraphale queried softly, and Felicity’s shoulders slumped.

“I love it, angel.” Crowley smiled. “I’m just imagining what we’ll do with the place. And I don’t suppose I need to ask if  _ you _ like it. You’re glowing.”

“Am-?” He glanced down, only to realise that Crowley was speaking figuratively. “Oh. Yes. I do… I think this could really be the one. For us.”

“Together,” Crowley murmured, as if he didn’t quite believe it- and then he seemed to snap out of it, turning to Felicity. “How soon can we move in? We won’t need a mortgage.”

“We can pay in cash, if that would help-”

“No need, a bank transfer will- you mean- you want this one?”

She looked desperately hopeful, and desperately tired. At least they hadn’t dragged her all this way for nothing.

“We’ll take it, my dear,” he said, and reached out to squeeze Crowley’s hand.


	4. Force

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This continues from the previous three chapters and will continue in the next one, too, bringing this five-part story to an end.  
> Enjoy!

When an angel and a demon set their minds to a common cause, they were a force to be reckoned with.

Crowley had been miraculously adjusting the temperature in his sunroom when Aziraphale had batted his eyelashes at him and asked if he could move some plants to the front room. Since Crowley had been hoping to get a few in there anyway, it was the work of moments to carry a few pots through and get them set up, with a hissed warning for them to behave themselves. Aziraphale, walking in with the old sofa from the bookshop over his shoulder as if it was nothing, immediately ruined the effect by cooing over them all.

“Oh, aren’t you  _ beautiful?  _ I can tell Crowley really cares for you well, you know. He must be very fond of you.”

“Angel, don’t coddle them.” That smile was swiftly turned on him instead, and Crowley had to duck out to get the armchair from the van before Aziraphale could see him melt.

Aziraphale went upstairs, talking about bookcases and desk placement and all sorts of other things Crowley couldn’t begin to fathom, and Crowley turned his attention back to his new sunroom. That was  _ his _ , Aziraphale had said so, which meant he could do anything he liked with it and Aziraphale couldn’t complain. And Crowley had  _ plans  _ for that room.

A miracle cleaned the glass roof, another the glass walls, and then Crowley snapped his fingers to summon his bed from the flat in Mayfair. Aziraphale may have chosen to move the human way, with a removal van and a crew of movers he’d sent down to the pub the moment they’d arrived, but Crowley was under no obligation to do likewise. He’d packed up the plants, of course, because they could be sensitive and a long van journey was probably safer than a miraculous appearance, but the rest could be miracled over at his leisure. The bed landed haphazardly in the middle of the sunroom, all black and foreboding, and Crowley regarded it thoughtfully. Another snap of his fingers changed the bedding and the curtains of his four-poster bed to a light, gauzy material - enough to shade the occupant from nosy neighbours or the glare of the sun, but not enough to block the view. Crowley lay back on the pillows, curious, and found the view of the sky above barely obscured by the fabric over the top of the bedframe. He could always vanish it altogether, if he wanted to get the full benefit of the sun or see the stars more clearly.

After that, it was just a matter of getting all his plants positioned around the sunroom, with plenty of space left for lounging. He put his throne in the front room, then realised it didn’t match the chairs from the bookshop and shoved that into the sunroom, too. That was when he heard Aziraphale calling him.

“Hello?” He made his way up the stairs. “You wanted something, angel?”

“Er- just checking it’s all right. For me to fill this room with books. I’ve put my bed from the bookshop in the other, it’s- it’s quite comfortable, I think. But if you’d rather yours went in there-”

“No, no, that’s fine. Want me to help unpack your books? I promise I’ll be careful with them.”

For a moment, Aziraphale looked very, very conflicted. Then he smiled.

“Would you? I’m certain that between the two of us, we can get them unpacked in no time.”

He was right; after all, when an angel and a demon set their minds to a common cause, they were a force to be reckoned with.


	5. Miscommunication

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of the little five-part story I got going somehow. Tomorrow will be something different. Er, probably. I haven't written it yet. Enjoy!

Aziraphale was fussing, and he knew it. He kept moving bookshelves a couple of inches one way, then a couple of inches the other, and he had to do it himself after the first couple of times, because Crowley had lost patience and turned his attention to opening boxes instead.

He’d only popped down to make himself a cup of tea, and found himself wandering from room to room with it. He’d stuck his head through the door of the little sunroom that was Crowley’s and been knocked backwards by both the heat and the realisation that Crowley’s bed was in there. Newly refitted to make the most of the sun, naturally, but- it was Crowley’s _bed._ And he’d thought- well, he’d hoped- it was just that they’d been sharing their respective beds when each of them visited the other for some time now, and Aziraphale had thought- hoped- he’d assumed they might share now. It had been a foolish conclusion to reach, and he felt rather guilty about simply requisitioning the second bedroom for books - he’d asked, but Crowley rarely denied him anything - and now Crowley was planning to sleep downstairs, so far from him, and it was... rather a disappointment, actually. Entirely Crowley’s right, of course, but- well- Aziraphale had wanted to hold him while they slept, not just occasionally but every night. Had been dreaming about it for weeks, actually. Was there any point in sleeping at all, if not with Crowley? If anyone should have the bedroom, it was-

“Angel.” Crowley reached out and gently took the bookcase from him; Aziraphale realised that he had been holding it in front of himself for the last several minutes, lost in thought. “Angel, what’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry for assuming,” Aziraphale blurted, “I didn’t think- of course if you want this room, you must-”

“This room?” Crowley looked around, rubbing at the back of his neck as if some explanation for Aziraphale’s nonsense might be found there. “Why would I want this room?”

“To sleep in, of course.”

Crowley went very still, but even as he remained motionless Aziraphale thought he could see him retreating. Shrinking, somehow, collapsing in on himself. Aziraphale had done that to him, somehow. He just knew it.

“Oh. I- yeah, of course. No, it’s all right, I’ve- my bed’s down- I’ll just- just sleep down there.”

“Isn’t that what you were planning?” Aziraphale had missed something. “That’s… why your bed is downstairs. Isn’t it? But if you want this room instead, my books can-”

“I thought-” Crowley shook his head violently. “I thought,” he repeated, in a voice of forced calm that sounded utterly hollow, “we were going to share. But I don’t mind, if-”

“Oh, thank Her. You’d like to? Share with-? _Sleep-?_ With me?”

“Ngk. Yeah. I would. If you want to, y’know.”

“I do, of course I do, oh, Crowley.” He flung his arms around his demon and kissed him, and Crowley kissed back, and they might have headed directly to his - their - bed from there if Aziraphale hadn’t remembered something important.

“Wait. Then why is your bed in the sunroom?”

“I thought… ngk. Come on, I’ll show you.”

The sun had set, while Aziraphale worried over bookcase placement and sleeping arrangements, so it was quite dark as Crowley led him to the bed in the sunroom and gently pushed him down onto it.

“Look, angel. Get comfortable, and… and look around.”

Aziraphale stayed perched on the edge of the bed, where he’d been put, and took a moment to appreciate the greenery around him.

“Your plants are very beautiful, Crowley,” he observed, “it’s a lovely room.”

“Exactly. Perfect to lie down in and catch the sun, during the day - you know I like to bask, and you’re not always available to bask in - and at night…” The demon draped himself along the length of the bed and gestured for Aziraphale to lie down, too.

“Oh!”

With his head on the pillow, beside Crowley’s, he could see straight up through the canopy of the bed, through the glass of the roof, and all the way up to the night sky above them. It was a clear night, and from this vantage point, with angelic eyesight, he could see thousands of pinpricks of light, sprinkled across the velvety blue fabric of space.

“Stars,” he murmured, “your stars.”

“Not all mine,” Crowley mumbled bashfully. “I thought- we’ve been through a lot. I thought this might be a nice place to come and appreciate our pasts. Where we started. Where we are now.”

“Eden,” Aziraphale breathed, glancing across at the leaves of the taller plants reaching up towards the stars, “paradise on earth.”

“Then, or now?” Crowley teased, and Aziraphale didn’t know where to find the breath to say _both._ _Always. With you, always._

He rolled over, instead, and kissed his demon for all the stars to see.


	6. Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playing a bit fast and loose with the prompt here, but there you go. Enjoy!

The armies of Hell stood down; all demons on Earth were recalled; everything ground to a halt.

Hastur didn’t want things to grind to a halt. He wanted to be busy, he wanted to forget. He asked Beelzebub to assign him some task, any task, and ze told him to fill out a transfer request form in triplicate and shove it up his arse. He found a crowded bunkroom where people didn’t know him, or at least didn’t dare approach him, and he kicked a lesser demon out of the nicest bed in the place, and he lay there staring up at the ceiling.

He didn’t sleep, not really, but when he closed his eyes images crowded in like the demons around him.

_ Crowley’s flat. Ligur. The door beginning to open, water falling onto Ligur’s head. Screaming. Screaming. Screaming.  _

His eyes flew open. Just a dream. Just a dream- then where was Ligur? Oh, right. Ligur was gone. He closed his eyes again to block out the grim reality.

_ Crowley’s flat. Ligur. The door beginning to open- Hastur lurching sideways, shoving Ligur out of the way. Water falling on him, burning, melting him away. _

Eyes open. He was alive. Ligur was gone. Eyes closed.

_ Crowley’s flat. Ligur. The door beginning to open- Hastur reaching out, grabbing Ligur’s coat, pulling him backwards. The water splashing harmlessly to the floor. Ligur cursing. Ligur alive. Hastur alive. Holding him. Holding him- _

“You’re crying,” a gruff voice observed from above him and a little to the side.

“Bugger off,” Hastur grumbled back, and then realisation dawned. He knew that voice. He didn’t dare open his eyes.

_ Crowley’s flat. Ligur. The door- Hastur knocking Ligur’s hand away from it. The door staying closed. Ligur frustrated. Ligur alive. Alive. Alive- _

“Think you’d be happier to see me. Don’t have to fill out a new partner request form in triplicate now.”

“You’re not real,” Hastur told him irritably, “you’re not him.”

“Aren’t I? Bloody hell, I hope I’m not Crowley.”

Hastur sat up slowly. That had sounded entirely too realistic to be a product of his limited imagination. Slowly, he opened his eyes- and there he was.

“Ligur?” He reached out to touch him, testing the solidity of his corporation, gripping his coat as if he was afraid he’d disappear. He  _ was  _ afraid he’d disappear.

“I’m here. Eric told me where you were. No bloody clue how I’m back, but I’m back.”

“You remember-?”

“Yeah. Not the kind of thing you forget.” Ligur sneered at him, the closest he ever got to a smile. “Took it out of me, though. Room for one more in there?”

“Yeah, ‘spose.” He shifted over a fraction in the narrow cot and Ligur dropped down beside him, half on top of him. Hastur grunted as he got comfortable, and then there they were, eyes wide open. Ligur in his arms. Alive. Alive. Alive.


	7. Alternate Universe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on Newt's... Newtness and one of the dictionary definitions of Anathema. Enjoy!

“Er, I think we need to have a conversation. Maybe we could, you know, er…”

“Go for coffee? Sure. I take it this is about-”

“The end of the world. Yeah. So-”

The line went dead.

Anathema settled in her usual seat at their usual café, prepared to wait for as long as she had to. They hadn’t had a chance to arrange their rendezvous properly, but she hoped Newt would work it out sooner rather than later. It wasn’t the first time they’d met here, after all, and she hoped it wouldn’t be the last.

Four hours and five cups of tea later, the lights flickered, and Anathema turned her attention to the doorway. She lifted her hand in greeting and the demon apologised his way between tables until he reached her.

“Hi. Sorry. You know how I am with phones.”

“Are you absolutely  _ certain _ you can’t just… turn it off, somehow?”

“Anathema. I’m the demon of technical hitches. Have been since I was wearing down stone wheels and stealing horseshoes. Do you really think I haven’t tried turning myself off and back on again?” Anathema raised an eyebrow and he blushed. “Oh- no- I don’t mean- I mean, not that- but-”

“The end of the world?” She prompted, cutting him off before he could waste hours on being flustered.

“I heard some other demons talking about it. The Antichrist, he’s here on Earth. They delivered him last night. And when he turns eleven-”

“He’ll bring about the end of the world, according to the doctrine.” Anathema nodded. “What’s your point?”

“Well, if the world ends… no more coffee dates. I just- I thought- maybe there was some way we could-  _ not  _ let the world end?” 

Newt looked so hopeful, she didn’t have the heart to disappoint him.

“I suppose, if it means that much to you, I could just change the doctrine.”

“You can do that?”

“What’s my job, Newt?”

“No, I know- angel of excommunication and doctrine reversal- but- don’t you have to get the OK from, like…  _ Her _ for that sort of thing?”

“Well, it’s not my fault if some files get moved around on Heaven’s computer system and I end up reversing the wrong thing. But Newt, I have one question.”

“What’s that?”

“When you say  _ coffee dates.  _ Do you mean  _ dates?” _

“Oh. Er. Ye...es? I mean, not unless- if you want-”

“Good. Then let’s go and save the world.”


	8. Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this one! It got away from me a bit.

Warlock sat quietly and listened as Nanny Ashtoreth - Crowley - explained. He wasn’t the Antichrist, he wasn’t going to destroy the world - he’d been muddled up with another child at birth, and that child was- wait.

“My mom and dad aren’t my real mom and dad?”

“Of course they are,” Crowley frowned. “Why would you think they weren’t?”

“You said… you said the babies got swapped. So I got swapped.”

“OK, yeah, you’re right in a way. You did get swapped. Your mum didn’t technically give birth to you, she gave birth to someone else. But they  _ are  _ your real parents. They brought you up, they taught you all sorts of stuff, they looked after you when you were sick and told you off when you were naughty. That’s what makes real parents.”

“But if that’s true,” Warlock protested, “surely you’re my mom too.”

“Eh?” Crowley looked so utterly baffled that Warlock had to run over his thought process again to check it before he dared say it out loud.

“You taught me stuff, loads of stuff. You looked after me when I was sick, you told me off loads. You read me bedtime stories and sang me lullabies, nobody else did that.”

“I-” Crowley pushed his glasses firmly up his nose, the way Warlock had seen Nanny Ash do a few times when Brother Francis had been fussing especially fondly over his gardening. “I was your nanny, it’s different. It was my job to do all those things.”

“It’s parents’ jobs, too.” Warlock frowned. “Have I upset you, Nanny Ash?”

“What? Oh.” Crowley slung an arm around Warlock’s shoulders and squeezed gently. It was oddly reassuring considering that Crowley had just, not ten minutes earlier, revealed himself to be a demon. “No, lamb. No. These are- these are happy tears.”

“You’re  _ crying?”  _ He hadn’t noticed, with Crowley’s eyes hidden behind his sunglasses as usual. “I didn’t mean to make you cry!”

“Happy tears,” Crowley repeated quietly, “and I’d rather you not tell anyone I cried. Especially Brother Francis. I’ve got an image to maintain, you know.”

They sat for a moment, staring out across the park, lost in their thoughts. But eleven year olds, especially eleven year olds like Warlock Dowling, were never silent for long.

“Why didn’t Brother Francis come with you to tell me all this? You said… he’s an angel?”

“Yes. And he’s- well, he’s been an angel for a very long time, and he worries a lot about what’s  _ right  _ and what the  _ proper _ thing to do is. And he thinks -  _ most  _ grown ups would probably think - that I should lie to you, or leave you alone to think you imagined everything weird that happened while you were growing up.”

“But you didn’t. You told me the truth.” Warlock didn’t doubt that for a second.

“Yes, I did.” Crowley tipped his head forward to peer at him over his glasses. “Did I do the wrong thing?”

“No, I don’t think so. I’m glad I know. Besides, if you’re a demon, you’re supposed to do bad things, right? So if you do the wrong thing, you’ve done the right thing, because that’s your job. And if you do the right thing, you’ve just… done the right thing.” Warlock scrunched his face up. “That’s what I think, anyway. And I’m really glad you told me.  _ I  _ think that was the right thing to do.”

“Well,” Crowley smiled gently, “that’s what matters.”

They lapsed into silence again, for a little while, before Warlock broke it.

“So I’ve got another family out there? One I don’t know about?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I suppose you do.”

“Are they happy? With their other kid? Do you know?”

“Yes. Yes, they’re happy,” Crowley told him, “he’s a handful, just like you, but they’re all very happy.”

“Good. I’m happy, too.” He sighed. “Will you visit me again?”

“Would you like me to?”

“I’d miss you. If you didn’t.”

“Then yes, lamb. I’ll visit as often as you like. Drag Brother Francis along, too, if you like.”

“Yeah.”

Warlock nodded, then rested his head against Crowley’s shoulder, twisting to give him his best pleading look.

“Can we get ice cream?” And Crowley, powerless as any parent to resist such underhanded tactics, agreed.


	9. Doubt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After yesterday, this one just sort of wrote itself. Enjoy!

Adam Young sat alone on his throne in the depths of Hogback Wood, staring down at the twigs and leaves crushed beneath his heels, and wished, very hard, that he had somebody helpful to talk to.

“Oh, dear. Wherever have I got to now?” He looked up in shock as the angel from the airbase - Aziraphale, he remembered, or at least he thought he remembered - bent to brush some dead leaves from his trousers. Then he turned and spotted Adam. “Oh, hello!”

“Hi. Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring you here.”

“Quite all right. It happens, my dear boy, it happens. Would you like me to leave?”

“Can you?”

“Of course; it was lovely to s-”

“No!” Adam immediately regretted interrupting him - his parents hadn’t raised him to be _rude_ \- but Aziraphale simply waited patiently for an explanation. “I mean- no, don’t leave. Please. I could do with somebody to talk to.”

“Ah, yes. I can do that. Let’s see…” The angel glanced around until he spotted an upended milk crate, which he carried over and set down beside Adam’s throne before perching on it. It didn’t look comfortable, but he didn’t complain. “There. What’s on your mind, Adam?”

Suddenly, nothing that was playing on Adam’s mind seemed important enough to bother an actual _angel_ about, but he was here now, and he was listening.

“I just… I don’t know if I did the right thing. With- with Armaggedon and everything.”

“Disowning your- Satan?” Aziraphale didn’t seem as though he was judging him, which was impressive, in Adam’s opinion. He was judging _himself_ for having doubts.

“That, ‘cos it seems a bit mean, but also… afterwards.” He shrugged. “I thought I should put things back to how they were, but maybe I should have left some things. I think I undid some of the stuff you and your- er. Boyfriend? Husband?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale supplied, a soft smile on his face.

“Some of the stuff you and Crowley did. I think I undid that, too. And I didn’t… I still have some powers.”

“Yes. It seems you do.” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow and waited; it seemed he was content to let Adam work through his thoughts on the matter before adding his own. At least, Adam _hoped_ he would eventually give him some form of guidance. That was what angels did, wasn’t it?

“I could have got rid of them, when I decided not to be the Antichrist. Which… yeah, I feel a bit bad for Satan, but he’s _Satan_ , so he’ll be fine. Right? Anyway. I could have got rid of my powers. Still could, I think. But I don’t want to. I liked being able to fix things, like your shop, and that nice old car, and that man who turned into a puddle.” Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “The… demon, right?”

“Yes. Yes, he was a demon. You fixed him?”

“Yeah. I didn’t think of it for a couple of days, but, well. It was like I could see everything that happened over the last few days before the airbase, and I just… undid all of it. After I fixed the things you’d lost.”

“Yes, and thank you for doing that, Adam.”

"It was only fair. It all got messed up because of me. But it’s a lot. You know. For a kid to decide. Do you think I did the right thing?”

Aziraphale thought about it for a few moments. That was good; it meant he wasn’t just going to say what he thought Adam wanted to hear. He hated when grown ups did that.

“I used to spend a lot of time worrying about doing the right thing,” Aziraphale began slowly, “and I think the very best advice I got about it was right at the very beginning.”

“What was that?”

“I gave away my sword, you see. And I wasn’t sure I ought to have done it. But Crowley, he said to me, _I don’t think you can do the wrong thing._ And that… at the time, he meant because I was an angel. But I’m beginning to think he was more right than he knew, all along. I don’t think _anyone_ can do the wrong thing. Because there’s the Great Plan, you see, God’s Great Plan,and everything that happens is a part of that. But there’s also free will. I think _that’s_ part of the Ineffable Plan. We make choices all the time, humans and angels and demons alike. And I think - though of course I’m not privy to the Almighty’s mind - that as long as we make our choices, and we do what we feel is best, then we can’t really do the wrong thing at all.”

“What about murder?” Adam asked, and Aziraphale frowned.

“Oh, dear. I hadn’t thought of that. Perhaps some things _are_ wrong. But I don’t think you’ve done anything wrong here, Adam. You reacted to a very strange situation with a great deal of maturity and wisdom.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Crowley and I, we were - well, we were very proud of you. Given that we chose to side with humanity, it was good to have such a wonderful example in front of us.”

Adam processed that for a little while, taking in Aziraphale’s sincere smile and the way he glowed slightly in the dappled light beneath the trees.

“So I did OK?”

“Adam, my dear boy. You did _wonderfully._ ”

“So… would it be the wrong thing to do if I made a circus come to town for Pepper’s birthday?”

“That depends. How does Pepper feel about clowns?”

“She thinks they’re hilarious. So does Wensley.”

“Well, then, I imagine that would- how does your _other_ friend feel about clowns?” Adam’s smile grew wicked. “Oh, dear. I think perhaps you ought to talk to Crowley.”

“What would he say?”

“Oh, he’d definitely tell you to go for it. Which doesn’t necessarily mean it’s the _right_ thing.”

Adam thought about that. Then he thought about everything else Aziraphale had said. Finally, he thought about his friends, and how glad he was he had them.

“I’ll find a circus without clowns.”

“Good idea.”

“And _maybe_ I’ll even tell Brian that.”

“Oh, good lord.”

And Adam didn’t have any doubts any more.


	10. Miracle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't resist this idea. I'm having fun trying to cover all the characters I can in the course of this celebration, so I hope you're enjoying that. I've spent most of a year largely focused on the Ineffables so it's nice to branch out! Enjoy.

Madame Tracy had never had any qualms about stretching the truth a little bit - or bending it, or tying it in knots if the occasion called for it - when it came to her psychic abilities, but that didn't mean she didn't care about her various clients. That was _why_ she had lied to Mrs Ormorod and her friends for all those years; the woman had wanted to feel close to her husband, and Tracy hadn't _needed_ to contact Ron's departed soul to deduce that he might well prefer a bit of peace and quiet.

So when, on the first Monday after the world hadn’t ended, her alarm went off to wake her for an appointment to draw back the veil, Tracy dragged herself out of bed and put her makeup on. By the time her client arrived at her door, she looked more or less awake, even if she could have done with a few more weeks in bed, and she was able to greet her guest with a smile.

“Hello, dear, do come in, how was your weekend?”

“Oh, yeah, it was- well, I don’t know, really, whole thing went by in a blur.” Hannah Patterson was a striking woman in her late forties, and looked a little more worn-down every time Tracy saw her, but she always managed a weary smile for Tracy. “Are we still all right for a reading?”

“Of course, dear, I never break an appointment without good reason. Would you like tea leaves, cards, palms, the crystal ball, or some combination of the above?” The thing about Ms Patterson was that she didn’t need all the mystical drama Tracy often had to summon up for her clients; Ms Patterson simply believed, and that was enough. She seemed to find a more matter-of-fact approach reassuring, and it was a lot less draining for Tracy, too.

“Oh, would you mind reading my tea leaves? Honestly, it’s just nice to have a cuppa I haven’t made.”

“I can make you tea regardless,” Tracy reminded her, “if you’d prefer something else.”

“Well… maybe you could have a look at the cards for me, too? I know you’ve said tea leaves can be a bit more… what’s the word, big-picture. And I’d like some more focused advice, if you have it.”

“The cards may well have more specific wisdom to impart,” Tracy agreed, as she pottered around the kitchen to make a pot of loose-leaf tea.

“While we wait for that to brew, how about you tell me what’s on your mind and we’ll see what the cards have to say about it, shall we?”

“Thank you. It’s just- well, it’s Steve, again. He’s still being a complete arse - via his lawyers, of course - and now he’s talking about taking the house. I live in that house. Our _kids_ live in that house. If he gets it- I don’t know what I’ll do, if he gets the house. And it’s not as if it was me running around on him, he’s the one with the secret family in Croydon, I just- I just want to know if it’s going to be all right.”

“Well, let’s see. Shall we do a five-card reading? Here, focus on your question and cut the deck for me.”

Ms Patterson concentrated, cut the deck, and passed it back to Tracy, who fanned it out, face down.

“Pick five, dear, that’s it.” Once it was done, she laid them out in a line and put the rest of the deck aside before turning them over, one by one.

“This card represents your distant past, you’ll remember from last time. Four of Wands, reversed - now, that suggests to me that there were conflicts at home. You didn’t feel supported, is that about right?” Ms Patterson nodded; Tracy wasn’t surprised. She’d heard all about the lack of support in that household during the months immediately preceding the divorce, and she’d heard even more since. “Your more recent past, that’s the Tower. Sudden upheaval, disaster - and just a hint of broken pride, wouldn’t you say?”

“Disaster,” Ms Patterson repeated anxiously, and Tracy laughed.

“Well, it felt like it at the time, didn’t it, dear? But we know better. Now, here, in your present, you’ve got the Nine of Swords. That tells me you’re feeling worried, maybe even hopeless. That right?”

“It’s just… it’s a lot to deal with, right now,” she admitted, and Tracy moved swiftly on. It was important to acknowledge that things had been bad before building her client up again, but there was no need to dwell on it.

“Near future - oh, the King of Pentacles, always nice to see him in a reading. That’s a card that speaks to abundance. Prosperity. Security. Perhaps things aren’t as bleak as they look?”

“Do… all the Kings in this deck have wings?” Ms Patterson asked curiously, and Tracy peered at the card in front of her. Sure enough, her perfectly ordinary King of Pentacles had sprouted white, fluffy wings.

“No, dear, just that one. It’s the best in the deck,” she lied easily. “And then your distant future - not _very_ distant, just a bit further on than the previous card, I don’t think the fates will keep you waiting. Oh, that’s _very_ nice. Queen of Cups. Compassion, calm and comfort. So I think you’ll be just fine, my dear.”

She left Ms Patterson staring at the cards, relief obvious on her face, and fetched the tea. Once it was drunk, she took Ms Patterson’s cup and swirled the dregs around before upending it onto the saucer, looking down to see-

“Oh, that’s- that’s unusual. Normally you have to squint a bit to make out the symbol, but- well, what do you see in there?”

“An angel,” Ms Patterson replied without hesitation. “Wings, and a harp, and a halo, and- is it wearing a bow tie?”

“Hmmm.” That was what Tracy saw, too, clear as anything. “Well, an angel in your tea leaves is a bearer of good news and certain happiness. So… that’s good, isn’t it?”

She didn’t have much time to dwell on the strangeness of it all, because her next client arrived only five minutes after Ms Patterson had left. Amelia Manning was young, in her early thirties, blissfully in love with her partner of ten years, and came once a month to get a reading ahead of taking a pregnancy test. So far, she had been unlucky in the pregnancy department, but she kept hoping.

“What’ll it be this month, dear?”

“Will you look into your crystal ball for me? I just- I could really do with knowing whether I’m getting my hopes up for nothing.”

Tracy hated doing this sort of reading; she always left her answers vague when it came to something concrete that someone was so desperate to achieve, whether it was a new job or a new baby. She didn’t want to crush their hopes, but she didn’t want to raise them cruelly, either. Today, she settled in front of her crystal ball and closed her eyes, trying to focus on the job at hand. The tense moment was broken by the telephone ringing.

“I’m sorry, dear - let me just get rid of whoever that is, the spirits don’t like being disturbed by loud noises.” She pottered out into the hallway and picked up the receiver.

“Madame Tracy speaking; do you need me to draw back the veil for-?”

_“Madame Tracy, it’s me. Hannah Patterson. I just had a reading with you?”_

“Ah, of course. I remember. Is something wrong?” Tracy didn’t give refunds. She braced for an argument.

_“No, nothing’s- quite the opposite. I wanted to tell you the good news! Steve, my ex, his lawyer just called my lawyer and she called me - he’s had a change of heart, he says since the divorce was all his fault I can keep everything. The house, the dog, all the joint bank accounts, everything - my lawyer’s never heard anything like it. But it’s all official, he’s signed something to say I can have it all! It’s a miracle!”_

“A miracle,” Madame Tracy repeated weakly, gears turning in her head. “I’m delighted for you, dear. Will I be seeing you again soon?”

_“Are you joking? I’ll definitely be round very soon. I feel like I owe this in part to you, I was about to give up-”_

“I’m- that’s excellent, my dear, but I’m supposed to be doing a reading right now. Can I call you back to arrange an appointment?”

_“Oh, of course! I’ll let you get on.”_

Tracy wandered back into her flat, a little dazed, and settled in front of the crystal ball again.

“Let me try that again for you, dear.” She gazed into the depths of the crystal ball and, for the first time ever, saw a clear image within it. A pure white feather, drifting down and landing in… well, in an old-fashioned bassinet, if Tracy was any judge. That didn’t seem too hard to interpret. “I think, my dear, that you should go home and pee on that stick now. I- the spirits- we have a very good feeling about this month.”

Miss Manning leapt up, light in her eyes, and barely managed to contain herself for long enough to say goodbye.

“I- thank you- oh, I hope- do wish me luck- oh, maybe this month will be our-”

“Miracle,” Tracy supplied quietly, “I do hope so, dear.”

Then Miss Manning was gone, and Tracy was left to her own devices. She picked up her tarot deck and examined the King of Pentacles; the wings were gone. She carried the teacup to the sink and rinsed it out, but hesitated as her eyes fell on the dirty saucer.

“Worth a shot,” she murmured to herself, and snapped her fingers in a swift downward motion. The dregs on the saucer disappeared, leaving it sparkling.

“Oh my,” Tracy told her empty flat. “I think I need to make a phone call.”


	11. Old Fashioned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning: Canon-typical slurs (this is Shadwell we're talking about) but only once. Sorry.**
> 
> Other than that, I hope you enjoy it!

Shadwell knew people thought he was old-fashioned.[1] He wasn’t one for modern notions such as not calling a spade a spade (or a pansy a pansy, or a jezebel a jezebel), nor was he the sort of man who embraced the metrosexual idea of looking after his appearance or doing his own housework. It did not, therefore, occur to the people who employed the Witchfinder Army to question his insistence on taking payment in shillings long after the United Kingdom embraced - with varying degrees of enthusiasm - decimal currency.

Shadwell himself rather _liked_ shillings and farthings and so forth, but he wasn’t so old-fashioned or so out-of-touch that he didn’t realise he could no longer pay his rent with them. But Mr. Crowley, like his son after him, never hung around for long enough to broach the subject of decimalisation, and Mr. Fell was rather too chatty for Shadwell’s taste, and so he had never got around to asking them to change the way they paid.

He had given the matter some thought, and then he had taken the shillings to the bank and had them changed for new money. That had worked well for a couple of years, but eventually the bank had been unable to accept his wages. The young lady behind the counter had suggested that he try the coin collector’s shop down the road, and Shadwell had grumbled his way along there. It was all too much hassle; he was going to have to talk his benefactors about paying in the new money if his bank was going to stop exchanging _real_ money.

The grumbling stopped when the gentleman in the coin shop examined his carrier bag full of change.

“This is a very impressive collection. Mint condition, all of them. This isn’t a sixpence, this is a Barber Dime. From 1900! And it’s so shiny- Do you have more like these?”

“Worth something, is it?” Shadwell tried to sound casual, but the shopkeeper simply gave him a knowing look.

“To have kept these in such fine condition, I can tell you’re a connoisseur yourself. Wife making you downsize your collection, is she?”

“Er,” Shadwell said.

“You must be aware that what you’ve brought me - well, I couldn’t live with myself if I gave you less than a hundred pounds for the pre-decimal coinage.”

“Er,” Shadwell said again.

“And a hundred and thirty for the Barber Dime. I’m sorry, that’s the best I can do, but it is such a fine example-”

“All right,” Shadwell said. “I s’pose. Ye’ve twisted my arm.”

They shook hands on it, but Shadwell was hardly paying attention. He watched carefully as the £230 was counted out from the till, and then he hesitated.

“Ye said _more like these.”_

“Yes, the pre-decimal currency is quite popular at the moment. Everyone’s cleared them out of their wallets and suddenly realised they miss the old familiar coins.”

“How about less familiar ones?” Shadwell asked. “Ye’ve got, er…” He had been furious to find coins he didn’t recognise, foreign ones, mixed in with the payments he got from Crowley and Fell, but now he smelt an opportunity. “Yankee coin,” he remembered suddenly, “eagle on it. And a big-breasted jezebel.”

“A… surely not. Are you teasing me, Mr…?”

“Sergeant. Sergeant Shadwell.”

“Sergeant Shadwell. Are you telling me you have an 1804 Bust Dollar in your collection?”

“Might ‘ave,” Shadwell told him, hoping that was in fact what he had. Something in the man’s expression suggested that he would pay almost anything to have that. “Interested?”

“Well, I’d have to see it - verify it - I couldn’t afford it myself, of course, but I know of buyers, very wealthy buyers…”

“Got another one, eagle one side, scrawny thing. And a shiny mountain.”

“Gold?” The shopkeeper asked, eyes glittering, and Shadwell nodded.

“Aye, looked like.”

“Mr- Sergeant Shadwell. I would be absolutely delighted to facilitate a sale for you - or, or multiple sales - please do come back in at your earliest convenience with those coins. I’d be happy to keep them in my safe for you, if you like.”

“Away wi’ ye, I wasn’t born yesterday,” Shadwell groused. Then he pulled a single ten pound note from his stack and held it up. “Got any books on coins?”

Shadwell had meant to do his due diligence on the matter, but there had been witches to find and, theoretically, burn. Then, years later, he’d discovered that his finger had exorcist powers, which had been another distraction from the business of sorting out his coins. But when the jezebel from across the hall had offered to take him with her into retirement, and had proposed that her savings would see them both through their twilight years, he had been given something of an incentive to look into it again. After all, Shadwell was old-fashioned, and he didn’t much like the idea of being a kept man.

He dug out his long-forgotten coin book, then dug around the back of the sofa until he found a handful of coins. He laid them out on top of a pile of newspapers, then checked all his pockets, and all his drawers. By the end of it, the pile of papers was almost covered in coins. He reached for the gold one first, carefully checking it against the pictures in his book to ascertain that it was a 1787 Brasher Doubloon, and that when he had bought the book in 1973 it had been worth…

“Witchfinder Lieutenant “Get-’Em-Before-They-Get-You” Dalrymple,” he whispered, in lieu of wasting a good curse word on an empty flat. “What’s it worth _now?”_

Hours later, staring down at seven denarii, three groats, several coins the book couldn’t identify, and a veritable wealth of what his book assured him was a mixture of pirate treasure and, better yet, hundred-year-old foreign currency, he realised he wanted to find out. He left it all on his pile of newspapers and popped out into the hallway with a normal twenty-pence piece. He checked it several times for distinguishing features before feeding it into the telephone.

“Witchfinder Private Pulsifer,” he ordered, before the pips could go, “report to my flat immediately. Bring the internet.”

Pulsifer started spluttering something on the other end, but Shadwell hung up and pressed the coin return button hopefully. Nothing happened. Well, it had been worth a try. He pottered back into his flat and sat, like a dragon, to watch over his hoard.

* * *

**Footnotes:**

[1] In fact, if everybody who had ever met Shadwell was asked to come up with a list of adjectives to describe him, only one of them would have said ‘old-fashioned’. That one person would also be the only person in the world who might describe The Velvet Underground as ‘bebop’. The other responses would have varied from the unpleasant to the downright rude, with the exception of one ‘sweet really when you get to know him’ from Madame Tracy, who saw with the eyes of love. The eyes of love were, perhaps, a little overdue a visit to the opticians’.[return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing about coin collecting. I got my information largely from this site: https://www.thesprucecrafts.com/rarest-and-most-valuable-coins-768161 but naturally all mistakes are mine.
> 
> I know provenance is probably important in these things but let's just assume that because Aziraphale and Crowley expect Shadwell to be able to exchange his wages for goods and services, things will just fall into place to allow him to sell the coins.


	12. Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With apologies for Anathema being a little bit unsettling here... Enjoy!

Anathema Device had always had a very good memory. She’d had to have a good memory, keeping all those prophecies straight in her head. Sometimes, even after Armageddon had come and gone, she found herself remembering Agnes’ words as she lay in bed, or listened to music, or walked down the street.

She had to find something else on which to focus her razor-sharp memory and its precision storage system, and as she cast around for something to file away in it she had found Newt. He occupied so much of her thoughts, anyway, that it seemed only sensible to start _remembering_ things about him, too. His middle name. His date of birth. The precise configuration of the three freckles at the base of his shoulderblade. The age at which he’d decided he wanted to work with computers. The year in which his mother had taken him aside and kindly, quietly warned him that he might be better off pursuing other ambitions. The details of the moment when he realised every single option left open to him also required some aptitude with computers.

At first, Newt was flattered by her attentions. People didn’t often listen to him, and Anathema - Anathema _did._ Anathema was mentally taking notes, all the time, remembering what he liked in his sandwich, what he didn’t, _why_ he didn’t; how he took his coffee, whether he made tea by putting the milk in first or the water; what his collar size was, when he bought a shirt, and what sort of tie he preferred. But then, gradually, he began to look uncomfortable when she brought up little details-

“I noticed you’d got a hole in your boxers, so I picked you up some new ones. They’re the same brand, right?”

-until finally, when she mentioned that it had very nearly been four months since they’d met, and that two days after that would be four months since they’d burned Agnes’ second book, he had something of a nervous breakdown.

“Please, Anathema, could you just stop _remembering_ everything about me?”

“I thought-” Anathema had never been in a relationship before, but she’d seen plenty of movies. “I thought couples were _supposed_ to know things about one another.”

“Yeah, they are, and it’s sweet, but- I can’t keep up with you, that’s all. You’ve got this incredible brain, like- like a computer except it _works_ around _me_. And I’m just- I can’t- I don’t want you to remember all this useless stuff about me when I don’t remember anniversaries, or birthdays, or… it’s a lot of pressure, that’s all.” He looked like he was about to cry, and she felt like she might, too. “Could you just… try to ease up a bit?”

“I don’t know if I can,” Anathema told him softly. “I’ve always had to memorise things, I don’t-”

“But it can’t just be me, Anathema.” Newt frowned. “There’s more to life than me, isn’t there? Wasn’t that… wasn’t the whole point of burning the book that you got to focus on other things for once?”

“I’m trying, but… right now, there’s only you and this cottage and this village. And believe me, I know everything about the cottage and the village.”

“Yeah?” Newt seemed to be thinking, which rarely boded well. “What do you know about… the village pub?”

“The Tadfield Arms,” Anathema supplied promptly. “It was established in 1408, but it was destroyed by an explosion in 1656, so the new pub is built on the site of the old one. The current landlord is Harold Stewart, and the pub hosts events on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.”

“Really? What events?”

“On Mondays, they host a friendly darts competition. On Wednesdays, a pub quiz. On Fridays, live music, although Mr Tyler is trying to get that shut down-”

“Go back to Wednesday,” Newt told her, a smile beginning to form, and she did.

“On Wednesdays… a pub quiz?”

“A pub quiz. It’s Thursday today, so I reckon if we start reading up on things now, we could absolutely thrash the locals next week.”

“Do you think so?” The idea had some merit. It sounded, at least, like something she could focus on until she found something more permanent and less trivial to do with herself. “All right. What shall we call our team?”

“Sky-High Stakes,” Newt quipped, and they both laughed.

The following week, Team Sky-High Stakes romped to an easy victory. As they triumphantly raised the little plastic trophy aloft, Anathema committed the moment to memory.


	13. Unlucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't resist. Enjoy!

Newton Pulsifer had always had rotten luck with computers. With anything more high-tech than a pencil and paper, really. Phones got staticky in his presence, mobile screens shattered if he looked at them, and all his tapes seemed to get recorded over the moment he put them in a machine. But the unluckiest thing of all was that computers were his passion; he loved all of that technology stuff.

No, wait. The unluckiest thing about Newton Pulsifer was that he had just asked a demon - the Serpent of Eden, no less, if anything the angel had said while they were bickering about how to get home was true - the time and the demon, in lieu of replying, had twisted his wrist to show him a very, very expensive-looking watch. A very, very expensive-looking watch which now seemed to be counting backwards.

Newt hoped, desperately, that the demon wouldn’t notice. That didn’t seem likely. What _did_ seem likely was that he would soon be nothing but a Newt-shaped stain on the tarmac. Perhaps he wouldn’t notice. Perhaps he wouldn’t notice, at least, until there was somebody else to blame for it. But then somebody else might become a Newt-shaped stain, and Newt couldn’t live with the guilt.

“I’m really sorry,” he mumbled, trying to work up the courage to admit what he’d done - and the demon glanced at his watch.

“Oh, that’s odd. Never done that before. Backwards? I don’t think so.” He frowned at it, and Newt watched in amazement as the numbers began rolling in the right direction again, setting themselves to the right time. “You were saying something?”

“Oh- er- just that- I think- I think that was my fault.”

“What was?” Crowley frowned at him, then at his watch. “My watch breaking?”

“It’s- anything technological, it just breaks. When I look at it. It’s like I’m cursed or something. I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s true,” Anathema supplied, “he tried to fix the missile targeting computers a moment ago, and it shut the whole system down. Saved the world, a little bit.”

Crowley looked at her blankly - _oh, no,_ Newt thought, _he and the angel want the credit for saving the world_ \- and then looked at Newt.

“Like a curse, you say?”

“Yeah. I touch things and they break.” Newt sighed. “I suppose I’ll never be a computer programmer.”

“Oh, to Hea- He- _bugger that_ ,” the demon declared, and then turned to the angel. “Angel, does this seem more like Heaven or Hell’s department?”

“Well, if it saved the world, neither,” Aziraphale admitted, “it must be-”

“Aziraphale, if you say _ineffable_ -”

“Well, it is! And that word saved our lives back there, if you remember.”

“Remains to be seen,” Crowley muttered under his breath, and then turned to Newt with a smile so bright it had to be forced. “Right, then, might as well go out with a bang. Angel, give us a hand, I’ve worn myself out with the time thing.”

“Wha-? Oh, right. Yes. Of course.” Aziraphale snapped his fingers in a vague downward motion, and Crowley’s smile widened grotesquely. Newt had the uneasy sensation that he was about to be swallowed whole.

The demon held out his watch.

“What time is it?”

“Ten past five,” Newt told him, thinking distantly that it ought to be far earlier, or far later.

“And now?”

“Still ten past five.”

“And now?”

“Still te- no, eleven past five.” Crowley raised an eyebrow, as if he’d missed something obvious. “Wait. Your watch is working. It’s- it’s still working!”

“Yes, it is!” He turned to the assembled humans. “Who’s got a mobile phone they don’t mind risking?” Nobody moved; Crowley sighed and pulled his own from his pocket, unlocking it with a swipe before handing it over. Newt stared at it for several long seconds, waiting for the damage.

It didn’t come.

“It’s not broken!” Newt grinned. “It’s- it’s not broken! Your phone, I’m holding it and it’s still-”

“Aww, you’ve got a picture of Aziraphale as your wallpaper-” Anathema stopped talking abruptly as Crowley snatched his phone back.

“Well, enough of that. You’re cured, go and retrain as a programmer or a rocket scientist or a web designer, whatever your heart desires. As for us-” He glanced across at Aziraphale, and something sad seemed to fall like a shadow across his face. “We’ve got things to do before it’s over.”

“Oh. Yes, I… I think we have.” Aziraphale nodded, and the pair of them began walking slowly towards the gates and the burning wreckage of the Bentley.

Newt watched them go, relieved that the demon hadn’t destroyed him after all. And, with his streak of technological bad luck apparently broken, he felt confident enough to push his luck in other areas, too.

“Anathema,” he blurted, “can I come back to yours?” For a moment, he thought he’d gone too far, his heart in his mouth as she thought about it.

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

Newton Pulsifer had never felt so lucky.


	14. Food

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was very nearly a Dog POV, but it worked better this way. Enjoy!

It was a Monday, and Adam’s parents had forgotten he was grounded. He called for Dog and set out into Hogback Wood in search of his friends.

It didn’t take him long to find them, gathered as they were in the usual place, but he caught Dog’s collar and waited a few moments, hidden by the undergrowth. His friends had _seemed_ all right, when they’d stopped by his house, and they hadn’t _said_ that they couldn’t be friends with him any more, but what if they’d changed their minds? He’d made some mistakes at the weekend, and he’d scared them, and he wouldn’t really blame them if they were still scared. Saving the world together was one thing, but _playing_ together might be quite another. So he hesitated, concealed among the trees, watching the Them from the outside.

Brian was waving a toy sword around.

“Go on, Pepper, just _one_ little swordfight?”

“No, thank you.”

“It was so cool how you-”

“I just don’t feel like it right now.” Pepper glared at him, and he lowered the sword. “I think we should play something else.”

“All right,” Brian conceded, “what shall we play, then?”

“Nothing, actually,” Wensleydale announced, looking up from where he’d been rummaging through a large wicker hamper, “not until we’ve had lunch.”

“You brought food?”

“Yeah, that’s what the hamper is.” Wensley shrugged. “Actually, I’m surprised you didn’t wonder.” He reached into the hamper and pulled out a small metal dish, which he set on the ground. Adam watched as he disappeared into the hamper again and reemerged with two bone-shaped biscuits, which he placed in the bowl.

“For Dog?” Pepper scoffed. “What makes you think he’s coming?”

“Adam said he wouldn’t be grounded for long, actually. If not, we’ll go and visit. You know Mrs Young will let us in to see Dog.” His voice was a little muffled as he ducked back into the hamper. “Dad helped me make sandwiches. There’s cheese, ham, cucumber, cheese and ham, cheese and cucumber, ham and cucumber, and-”

“Cheese and ham and cucumber?” Adam called, letting go of Dog as he stepped into the clearing. The former Hellhound had been straining to escape since the moment the biscuits came into view.

“Adam!” Pepper launched herself at him, almost knocking him to the ground, and Brian wasn’t far behind her.

“We thought you’d be stuck inside forever and ever!”

“Actually, I thought you’d come.” Wensleydale patted him on the shoulder and offered him a ham-and-cheese-and-cucumber sandwich. “And you were right about the sandwiches.”

For a few minutes, they sat quietly, eating sandwich after sandwich and then, as a delightful surprise, cake after cake.

“I’m full,” Brian declared at last, and Wensleydale beamed as his friends agreed.

“Actually, that’s a good thing.”

“What’s all the food for, Wensley?” Adam was glad of the picnic, of course, and he was especially relieved that his friends were still his friends, but they usually just played until they were hungry enough to go home for tea. The sudden change was a bit confusing.

Pepper and Wensleydale exchanged significant glances as Brian stood and began picking cake cases, paper plates and clingfilm off the floor.

“Actually, what happened at the weekend got us thinking.” He glanced at Pepper again, as if for help, and she picked up where he’d left off.

“War and Famine and Pollution - they might come back eventually, but it’s not going to be our fault when they do.”

“And we’ll be ready for them,” Brian added, dumping all their rubbish back into the hamper and closing it. “Won’t we?”

Adam looked at them, his three brave, brilliant friends, and felt something anxious in his stomach that he’d barely been aware of settle beneath the weight of cake and friendship. He ruffled Dog’s ears affectionately and smiled.

“Course we will.”


	15. Through the Years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold, an unexpected Archangel. Enjoy!

Gabriel was, in his own opinion, the definition of a self-made angel. Not literally, of course - The Almighty had made him, and to suggest otherwise was blasphemy of the highest order - but he had used his God-given talents to work his way up from Heaven's corporate mail room to become an effective part of the leadership team.

Michael had taken her place two rungs below Her in a single blaze of glory, when she'd cast Lucifer out during the Fall. Uriel had been promoted for her efforts immediately afterwards, helping to pull Heaven back together and restructure things in the absence of their Fallen kin. Sandalphon had distinguished himself from the Host in the strikes on Sodom and Gomorrah, and had been elevated to Archangel as much to keep him from destroying Her creations for fun as to reward him for a job well done.

Gabriel hadn’t done any of those things. Gabriel had carried messages, before the Fall, and after the Fall he had carried  _ more  _ messages. Over time, he had come to realise that when he carried messages, he carried information. Information he could use.

So one day, when he delivered Michael’s messages to her, he hesitated before leaving.

“I hear the Almighty is planning to send a messenger to Earth.”

“Yes.” Michael hummed and turned a page, already dismissing him in her mind.

“Has She picked somebody yet?”

“We do not bother the Almighty with such trivial details,” Michael told him sharply. “If that’s all-”

“So you’re choosing the messenger.” He took a deep breath. “That message you had me deliver to the potted fern in the foyer. It’s the strangest thing, I saw a demon prowling about there not long afterwards.”

“What are you suggesting?” Michael snapped, but Gabriel had her full attention now.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. I went down to Earth once to interpret some dreams, you know. I’ve always wanted to see it again.”

“Have you.” It wasn’t a question; it was a delaying tactic. Gabriel could read Michael’s body language as easily as he’d read her messages; she was thinking fast. “You’ve been carrying messages for some time, now, haven’t you, er…”

“Gabriel,” he supplied helpfully. “Since the beginning.”

“Well, who better to deliver such an important message as this, then?”

“I’m honoured.”

“Of course, such a position commands a great deal of respect… and demands a great deal of discretion.”

“I can be discreet,” Gabriel told her firmly, “all I want is the chance to shine. To give glory to God.”

“And you shall, Gabriel. I’ll be in touch with the details.”

He had told Mary of the coming Christ child, and she had been a little short with him, if he was honest. But then he’d been sent to speak to some shepherds, who had been gratifyingly terrified, and he’d even got to appear in a dream, and it seemed that Michael was a lot more embarrassed about Hell prowling around her private correspondence than Gabriel had realised.

He’d barely had to hint that the humans he’d spoken to had assumed he was an Archangel before Michael had suggested making it a permanent promotion. And from there - well, Sandalphon had taken an immediate shine to him, offered to show him the ropes, and then followed him around like a lackey. Michael had watched him like a hawk for the first few centuries, then shifted as much of her work onto him as possible to free herself up for War Planning. He was let in on the finer details of the Great Plan - the end of the world, and then the war between Heaven and Hell. And then, without really knowing how it happened, he found that Uriel was looking to him, too. Somehow, he was in charge of their single full-time Earthly agent, and the former messenger found himself managing a Principality, of all things.

Over time, he forgot what it was to be lowly and unimportant. He forgot how fascinated he’d been by Earth the first time he’d visited. He forgot the lesson he himself had taught Michael; he forgot to treat his subordinates with kindness, so they wouldn’t seek to drag you down.

Then the end of the world came. It wasn’t at all like Gabriel expected.


	16. Far Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

It was the year 3993, and Beelzebub was in Heaven. Ze was about as thrilled about that state of affairs as ze had been to learn that all zir work on the Apocalypse was about to go to waste, and having Dagon at zir side was more or less the only thing stopping zir from going absolutely insane.

“You remember the plan?” ze buzzed softly, and Dagon nodded.

“I remember. You’re sure?”

“Yezzz.”

Michael chose that moment to finally make her appearance, with the other Archangels trailing in her wake.

“Beelzebub. It’s time to try again. The Great Plan is in motion once more, and we’re going to need you to-”

“Let me zztop you there.”

Michael looked as though it was the first time anybody had ever interrupted her in her life; it probably was. Beelzebub smirked.

“The Great Plan is God’zzz idea, right?”

“Well. Yes.”

“And we - demonzzz - do we like Her, Dagon?”

“Not very much, my lord, no.”

“Not much?”

“Not at all, actually, my lord.”

“Zzo how do we feel about carrying out the Great Plan?”

“Doesn’t sound like fun, my lord.”

“It doezzn’t, doezz it?” Beelzebub turned back to Michael with a grin. “There we have it. Have your own war.”

“But-” Michael was floundering, turning to the other Archangels for help, but they looked as taken aback as she did. “But what am I supposed to tell  _ Her? _ ”

“Tell her to buzzzz off,” Beelzebub suggested, and the two demons left.

Halfway down in the lift, Dagon got a fit of the giggles so bad that Beelzebub had to smack the emergency stop button and join her on the floor until they could both get themselves under control. It wouldn’t do for the denizens of Hell to think their leaders undignified, after all.

“We’re really not doing it?” Dagon asked as they finally stepped out of the lift at the basement level and began to descend the stairs to Beelzebub’s office.

“We’re really not.” Beelzebub smirked. “Oh, Michael’s  _ fazze _ . That felt good.”

At last, the demons of Hell were free to do whatever the Heaven they liked.


	17. Holiday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured, rousing Crowley from a deep and peaceful sleep.

“‘Sappenin’?” He sat up, suddenly alert, searching for danger. It had been almost a year since the world had failed to end, and he was still waiting for Heaven and Hell to work up the courage to make them pay for it. “Whasssss wrong?”

“Nothing. Oh, I am sorry, Crowley. I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

“‘S okay.” Crowley settled back against the headboard. “Did you want something?”

Aziraphale’s gaze trailed over him for a moment, speculative, but just when Crowley thought things might be about to get interesting, he sat down beside him on the bed.

“I just thought. It’s, well, it’s been a thousand years since we came to the Arrangement.”

Crowley frowned. “Thought that was Coventry. 1050-something.”

“That’s the first time we _used_ it, yes. But we _agreed-”_

“1020. So we did.” Crowley had almost forgotten. “You said you’d let me know if anything came up, and I ended up hunting you down thirty-four years later. Should I have got you a present?”

“No, no. I don’t think it’s that kind of anniversary. But I wondered if you wanted to do something to celebrate. Maybe… maybe we could go away somewhere.”

“I’ll go anywhere you go, angel, you know that. Where were you thinking?”

“Alpha Centauri?” Aziraphale suggested, and Crowley winced. He’d been trying not to think about how he’d begged Aziraphale to run away with him, and been summarily shot down. Aziraphale saw him wince. “No- I’m sorry, my dear. That’s a little far, anyway. I thought perhaps Brighton?”

“Brighton?” Crowley had tempted people to go off there before, on dirty weekends with their mistresses, but he’d never seen it himself. “Why not?”

* * *

They drove down and took a room at a seafront hotel; Crowley insisted on trying out some of the fairground rides on the pier - “Tokens instead of money, angel, one of my best ideas,” - and Aziraphale clung to a railing so he could look out at the ruins of the town’s second pier. He couldn’t help but feel a little nervous on the wooden structure, however sturdy it clearly was; being around so much water never failed to remind him of the Flood.

“It’s OK, they’ve still got one,” Crowley murmured, coming to embrace him from behind, and Aziraphale sighed; had he been that obvious, or was Crowley simply following the same train of thought? “Pier, I mean. Want to get back onto dry land?”

Aziraphale did, and after a brief walk they found themselves in what the street sign proclaimed to be Duke Street. There, Crowley slowed with a smile outside a small shop outside which a table groaned with cheap, grubby second-hand paperbacks.

“Want to look inside, angel?” It didn’t look like Aziraphale’s sort of shop at all, until he glanced through the window and spotted the huge, leather-bound volumes that lined the walls. He wandered inside and found a gentleman busily flicking through a book behind the counter.

“More downstairs,” the shopkeeper told him, and Aziraphale nodded his thanks before descending a tight spiral staircase, Crowley close behind. The demon let out a low whistle when they reached the bottom.

“Blimey. This is almost as bad as yours.” Aziraphale smacked him lightly on the arm, but he had to concede that, had he not known better, he’d have suspected miraculous involvement in the way the bookshelves seemed to turn improbable corners and disappear into hitherto unsuspected reaches of the shop. Just when Aziraphale thought he’d reached the limit of his exploration, a little alcove turned out to be a corner, beyond which were even more books. He opened a little book of sonnets and found a handwritten dedication from one lover to another, dated 1902. Fairly recent, but quite charming and-

“Oh, Crowley, they’re letting this go for £4!”

By the time they left, Crowley was carrying a large carrier bag full of similar bargains.

“I really will carry those-”

“You will not,” Crowley told him, “besides, I’m told you’ll want your hands free for Ben’s Cookies. It’s just over there.”

“When did you find all this out?” Aziraphale was astonished, but then he caught the scent of the cookies and began drifting instinctively towards its source.

“You really ought to get a smartphone, angel, they’re very handy. Anyway, these are supposed to be the best cookies in town.”

“Oh, but Crowley, you’re spoiling me, and I don’t know what to do to make _you_ happy.”

“You _do_ make me happy,” Crowley told him, and dragged him into a kiss, right there in the middle of the street. Nobody batted an eyelid. “And I’ll be even happier,” he continued, “when I show you the frozen yoghurt place. And then we’re going to poke around all the little shops, and you’re inevitably going to buy a snuffbox, and I’m going to tempt people into buying things they don’t need.”

“Sounds like a perfect way to spend the holiday,” Aziraphale agreed.

“Oh, and tomorrow I thought we’d go to the Sealife centre, have a look at some of the things that didn’t boil last year.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale leaned in close. “What about tonight?”

“Tonight?”

“Yes. _I_ have plans for tonight, and they all involve taking you back to our hotel and,” - he brought his lips so close to Crowley’s ear that it was almost a kiss as much as a whisper, and Crowley turned bright red in the middle of the street. “Regretting those jeans, dear?”

“You really are a bit of a bastard,” Crowley gritted out, “come on. Let’s go and try these cookies.”

Aziraphale smiled indulgently and followed him. This really was shaping up to be an extremely satisfying holiday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Apparently my favourite Antiquarian Booksellers sadly moved out of Duke Street in 2018, but when I used to spend a lot of time in Brighton it was my home from home (it could be, because the owners were super chill and the prices in this fic are accurate) - and the closest thing to Aziraphale’s bookshop I’ve ever encountered in real life. In the world of fic, we’re allowed to make things the way we want them, and in a perfect world this shop would still be there for the Ineffables to visit in 2020. Apologies for hijacking a prompt to write a tangentially-related tribute to a place I loved.


	18. Wayward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we see the author trying _not_ to paste a little bit of a larger WIP in and call it a day. Enjoy (and let me know if you want to see more of these boys)!

Gert Johnson hesitated with his hand on the car door.

“Do I really have to go, Mum?”

“Yes, honey, I’m sorry. Just for a term, your social worker wouldn’t have suggested it if she didn’t think it would help.”

“But I didn’t mean to break the swing.”

“You shouldn’t have been on it, Gertie, you know it’s for smaller children. Look, the point is, it was technically vandalism, and you’re lucky Jan managed to sort things out before Mr Tyler made his case to the police. He wanted you shipped off to a juvenile detention facility, you know.”

“What’s the difference?” As far as Gert was concerned, this  _ was  _ a juvenile detention facility. He was a juvenile, and he was being detained.

“It’s a school, darling, just a new school, and I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time. Go on, you don’t want to be late.”

“Aren’t- won’t you- come with me?”

“Gertie,” his mother told him sternly, “you haven’t had me walk you into a classroom since you were five years old, because you said people would laugh. Is that how you want to start here?”

“No.” He took a deep breath and let his mum kiss his cheek in farewell. “Bye, then. Look after Bubbles and Pop for me.”

“Yes, dear, I’ll feed your fish.”

He walked through the door at the front of the school and found two boys already sitting near what appeared to be an abandoned reception desk.

“Er… hi? I’m new.” He took a second look at one of the boys. “Adam?”

“Greasy Johnson?” Adam frowned thoughtfully. “You’re the new kid?”

“Yeah.” Gert shrugged and stuck his hand out to the remaining boy. “I’m Gert.”

“Warlock.” The boy shook his hand without really looking up from his book. “You’ll like it here.”

“Will I?” Gert didn’t understand. “How can you tell?”

“Everyone likes it here,” Adam answered. “Don’t mind Warlock, he’s still doing Mr Harrison’s homework and it’s due in next lesson.”

“Oh. What is it?”

“Famous Serial Killers and Why They Kinda Sucked.” Warlock shrugged. “I’m mostly using my notes from Mr Cortese’s class. Famous Serial Killers and Why That’s Not Right At All.”

“Oh. OK. Are those… do we just learn about serial killers, then?”

“Oh, no.” Adam grinned, adopting a sweet, informative tone. “Here at the Harrison-Cortese School for Wayward Boys, students learn a full curriculum including History, Historical Science, Historical Maths, Language and Literature Through History-”

“A lot of History, then?” Gert offered, and Adam scoffed.

“Yeah, that happens when your teachers are six thousand years old. They think I don’t recognise them, though, so we have to pretend we don’t know.”

If this was a trick they were playing on the new kid, Gert was just going to play along until a better opportunity presented itself.

“Six thousand? Bit of an exaggeration.”

“No, literally. They’re an angel and a demon. But now they teach kids.”

“And… do the other kids know?”

“Oh, it’s just the three of us. Mr Cortese wants to speak to you, by the way. We’re off to Mr Harrison’s class. Don’t call him Nanny again this time, Warlock.”

The two boys went off down the corridor, bickering lightly.

“I’m sorry, it’s a hard habit to kick-”

“Yes, but if Mr Cortese realises you know who they are-”

“I don’t see why, it’s not like Nanny minds-”

“Warlock! You did it again-”

“Excuse me,” Gert called after them, feeling rather lost, “where do I find this Mr Cortese?”

“End of the corridor, on the right,” Adam told him, and the two of them disappeared through a door on the left.

Gert had a feeling this was going to be a very weird term.


	19. Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another slight deviation from the prompt in order to write something I’ve had jotted down in my prompt file for ages. Sorry!

_Doubt thou the stars are fire;_

_Doubt that the sun doth move;_

_Doubt truth to be a liar;_

_But never doubt I love._

~ _Hamlet_ by William Shakespeare

* * *

Chirauel was just daydreaming when Storia came along, looking for help, so there didn’t seem to be any particular reason not to go along.

“What are you making?” they asked, trailing in the other angel’s wake, and Storia grinned.

“Stars, they’re calling them. Big balls of burning gas. They’re to make the sky look good.”

“Oh, how nice.” Chirauel had painted part of the sky themself, actually, and thought it looked pretty nice as it was, but there was no sense in disagreeing with Storia about it. “Burning, you say?”

“Yeah. You and me, we’re going to create the balls of gas and hold them in place, and then we get to do the fun bit.” The grin turned sharp. “Actually, you hold them, I’ll set them on fire.”

“All right,” Chirauel smiled back. “Sounds like a sensible division of labour to me.”

Chirauel held the raw elements of starstuff in place as Storia lit star after star.

“Here, Chirauel, see if you can do one in each hand.” Chirauel did, and felt the heat lick at his sides. He dropped a little of the starstuff in surprise, but caught it with his foot. It smouldered dimly near the two larger stars.

That was, Crowley would reflect later, the last time he ever saw Hastur look truly happy.

* * *

Hastur lurked in the shadows outside Crowley’s building and scowled at the world, which was stubbornly refusing to end. He had been promised that Crowley would be tried for his treason the next day, as soon as the fury in Hell could be subdued to a dull roar, but none of that was going to bring Ligur back.

A bus pulled up and the traitors stumbled out of it.

“Tell me something,” Crowley murmured, half-slumped against the angel as if his legs weren’t quite capable of supporting him on their own. “Something beautiful.”

“Doubt thou the stars are fire,” Aziraphale quoted obediently, “doubt thou the sun doth move-”

“Stars _are_ fire,” Crowley grumbled, “helped make some. ‘Sides, I hate the gloomy ones.”

“You obviously don’t _remember_ the gloomy ones very well,” the angel scolded softly, and then they were inside the building, out of Hastur’s earshot.

“Stars _are_ fire,” Hastur echoed firmly, as much as it pained him to agree with Crowley of all people. “I lit them myself.”

“What are you mumbling to yourself about?” Ligur hissed from behind him, and Hastur jumped.

“Bloody Heaven, don’t do that. I forgot you were there.” Hastur grimaced. “We’re still going to make him pay.”

“Course you are.” Ligur smiled, a menacing sort of expression that in no way implied happiness. “But I can think of better ways to spend tonight than spying on him.”

“Yeah?” Hastur turned to look at him. “Hell’s total chaos.”

“Then we’ll stay on Earth.” Ligur looked around at the brightly-lit buildings until he spotted one without lights in it. “There. Horrible dark lurking-spot, just there. Let’s go and _lurk.”_

Hastur thought about it for a moment.

“When we’re done, we’ll light it on fire?”

“Course. You’ve gotta make time for your hobbies.” Ligur grabbed Hastur by the back of his collar - such an affectionate gesture that it would have seen him ridiculed in Hell - and marched him towards the privacy of the darkened building.

Hastur went gleefully.


	20. Poetry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pardon my angst.

_My foe has gone away from me_

_And troubles me no longer;_

_Yet my poor heart can find no peace_

_Although my cause is stronger._

_My friend has left me here alone_

_This heavy load to shoulder;_

_And passed into that great unknown_

_Of dreams, where men are bolder._

_My lover sleeps in solemn state_

_And all the world is silent;_

_With ev’ry passing year I wait_

_My longing grows more violent._

_Three people do I thus describe_

_Alike only in leaving;_

_Yet all in one must reconcile_

_On Earth, or else in Heaven._

“Oscar helped me a little with that last line. I had _On Earth, if not in Heaven_ , but that really only makes sense to the two of us.” Aziraphale sighed, reaching out to touch the little sketch of Crowley he’d stolen from a mutual friend’s studio in the late fifteenth century.

He wished he dared visit Crowley’s actual home - _lair -_ but with Crowley sleeping, there would be no way to explain the fact that the demon continued to exist if either of their sides realised Aziraphale had been there. No, he would simply have to remain in his own back room, dwelling on the injustice of Crowley’s absence and the sheer unmitigated insult of his own feelings on the subject. Crowley had been gone for centuries before, and Aziraphale had never felt such agony as this; now, a mere thirty years after their fight, he was reduced to the state of a lovesick poet, and a poor one at that. 

“It doesn’t even rhyme, not really. But that’s not always the most important thing, in poetry.” It bothered Aziraphale, all the same, but he’d bowed to the collective wisdom of his more literary friends. If it was what he felt, they had argued, what did it matter whether it rhymed?

“I - oh, you’d laugh, Crowley, if you knew - I read it to the fine gentlemen at the club, and they were very kind about it. One of them - Percy, his name is, a man of figures more than the figurative - he said it spoke quite profoundly to his own experience of grief, as the verse spoke as though the departed might, even after years of sleep, rise and return to the poet’s- to my- well. To my arms, he said. I think they all put rather a lot of stock in the term _lover_ \- by which I meant to say one who loves, and is- is loved in return - and not nearly enough stock in the word _foe_. Oh, Oscar delighted in that, of course; he is of the opinion that not nearly enough people have openly declared foes these days. He himself claims to have at least one arch-enemy, a ridiculous affectation, but then that’s Oscar, isn’t it? I think you’d like him, you know, Crowley. He’d like you. He’s always saying that you sound like somebody worth knowing.”

He thought about it for a few more moments.

“I wouldn’t introduce you, even if you were here. He’s so easily tempted as it is, and you are such a temptation, my dear boy.”

He read through his poem one last time, mouthing the words as he went, listening to the rhythm of them in his head.

“I did consider sending this to you,” he admitted quietly, “or dropping by to leave it at your bedside, for you to find when you woke up. Perhaps then you’d understand how it pains me to be without you, to be at odds. Perhaps you’d understand why I can’t give you what you want. I can’t risk- I can’t be without you, Crowley. If anything, this ridiculous sleep of yours has only proved that.” He took a deep breath. “But you know as well as I do that it can’t be. It will never be safe for me to tell you, or for you to know. So-” He tucked the little sketch back into a hidden drawer in his desk and lifted the poem to his candle. “This poor verse is best forgotten.”

He hesitated, just for a moment, the paper just beyond the reach of the hungry flame. Perhaps, at some point in the future, things might change-?

“Aziraphale!” The booming voice made Aziraphale’s mind up for him; he touched the paper to the wick and dropped it to the desk with a hasty miracle to contain the fire.

“Gabriel. What can I do for you?”

“Oh, I don’t need anything from you; I’m just in town to visit my tailor.”

“Mr Davidson? I’m afraid he passed away some fifty years ago-”

“Not at all. I just saw him.”

Aziraphale stared at him blankly for a moment before he made the connection. “His grandson. His son took over the business, and then-”

“Oh, if you say so.” Gabriel didn’t seem interested in the slightest. “What are you burning, there?”

Aziraphale glanced behind him at the small pile of ash, all that remained of his attempt at literature.

“Sinful words,” he decided at last, “blasphemies, really.”

“Oh, very good. But don’t forget that we’re not here to coddle the humans. If they read such things and go to Hell, that’s not our problem.”

“But if we can prevent it-”

“Not our problem, Aziraphale.” Gabriel grinned. “Great to catch up. I’ll go and collect my suit, now.”

“Suits can’t be made in-”

But Gabriel was gone, and so was the poem. It was for the best, Aziraphale reasoned. They would never have been safe.


	21. Garden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short one today. Enjoy!

The Garden stretched away in all directions, and its borders were the limit of the explorable world.

Without help - without someone to open the gate - there was no passing beyond those boundaries, but within the Garden dwelt a multitude of experiences and temptations. Tastes, and smells, and textures; dropped fruits, which he didn’t care for, and friendly hands, which he did.

All manner of creatures lived in the garden, ready to be pursued through the shrubbery and chased up trees. Spiders, and snails, and slugs. Cats, hedgehogs, and squirrels. So much to interact with, and so little time. He, more than anyone, knew there was so little time.

Adam stood before him, in the centre of the Garden, and slapped his own legs.

“Come on, Dog. We’re going into the woods to play with the others.”

Dog looked around at the explorable world, barked once, and trotted over to his master. It was time for one last walk on the Earth.


	22. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know where the idea of the Disposable Demon being named Eric came from but it is now a fanon I cannot shake, sorry.
> 
> This is another little thought that's been kicking around for a while. Enjoy!

Eric had decided against punching the angel. Even restrained, the Principality Aziraphale had given him a _look_ that warned he was not to be trifled with. Let the archangels deal with him; Eric would simply step outside and wait to be called back in.

“Sibling?” The voice was instantly familiar, as was the face that stared back at him when he turned towards it. “Why are you dressed like that?”

“Why are _you_ dressed like _that?_ ” The being speaking to him wore the typical business-casual attire of Heaven, with their hair artfully curled around their ears, like ram’s horns, but other than that, it was like looking into a mirror. Or at one of his many, many doubles. In fact, it was _exactly_ like looking at one of his doubles, only before the Fall.

“Oh, Hell,” said the angel.

“Oh, Heaven,” said Eric. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

They wandered off together, forgetting about the execution, and took a seat on one of Heaven’s pristine white benches. Eric almost expected it to burn him, but it didn’t.

“I assumed we all fell,” Eric admitted, just as the angel - Erisiel, still Erisiel after all these centuries - began to speak too.

“I didn’t realise any of us had fallen. Oh, bother. We should have noticed.”

“How could we?” Eric shrugged. “Infinite copies-”

“-impossible to count,” Erisiel finished. “Still.”

“Interesting, though,” Eric pointed out. “We made different choices. Maybe we’re more individual than we thought.”

“Maybe so.” Erisiel seemed troubled by the thought, which Eric thought was a bit rich; _they_ weren’t likely to be incinerated if things didn’t go absolutely right with the traitors. “I wonder what that means.”

“Nothing, really.” Eric shrugged. “So, how’s it been? Being… you know, staying up here and that.”

“It’s been glorious, of course,” Erisiel told him haughtily, and then seemed to deflate. “Well. Things have changed. There’s rumour of an angel going rogue-”

“Oh, yeah. I just brought up the Hellfire for his execution. That’s why I’m here.”

“Execution? But there’s been no trial.”

“No need, apparently. Ruined Armageddon. Although for what it’s worth,” he leaned in conspiratorially, “ _our_ traitor’s getting a trial.”

“Oh.”

For a moment, Eresiel seemed lost in thought, but then they snapped out of it.

“And you? How’s Hell? The legions of the damned, and so on?”

“Hastur killed three of me- er, us- just in the last few days. Made a joke he didn’t like. Other than that, it’s pretty much like this, only dark and cramped and mouldy and absolutely nothing at all like this, actually.”

“Oh.”

There was another long silence.

“Perhaps, since Earth is still going, we could arrange some sort of get-together. Just to catch up. It might be nice.”

Eric thought about that for a minute. “Yeah. I’d like that, I think.”

And that was how EricCon began.


	23. Cursed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one for you. Enjoy!

The thing was, Agnes didn’t  _ mean  _ to curse the Pulsifers.

She’d definitely meant to curse Thou-Shalt-Not-Commit-Adultery Pulsifer, although it felt somewhat redundant given the several pounds of gunpowder and roofing nails she’d already sewn into her skirts and the several more she planned to pack in there before the morning. But she hadn’t meant to curse his son, a mewling infant at home with his mother, nor  _ his  _ son, as yet unborn, nor any of the other yet-unborn Pulsifers who would come to discover that things had a tendency to blow up in their faces.

She dreamt of them, that night - of Thou-Shalt-Not-Covet-Thy-Neighbour’s-Ox Pulsifer, who would be killed while loading a cannon on a British naval ship; of Samuel Pulsifer, who’d suffer the same misfortune on a pirate ship years later; of Martin Pulsifer, who would turn his curse to his advantage and take work in the firework industry, and whose career would end when one of his creations quite literally blew up in his face. She dreamt of James and Stuart and Quentin Pulsifer, all killed on the front lines of a war she couldn’t truly imagine. She dreamt of Colin Pulsifer, who would be working on an oil rig when it exploded, and finally she dreamt of Colin’s son, Newton. He would blow up a system of interconnected thinking apparatus, and that… that would save the world.

_ And you will be there, too, Anathema.  _ Agnes woke with a grim smile on her face and a scrap of hope in her heart. She couldn’t lift her curse, now it had been laid - centuries of Pulsifers would live and die by her whim. But this Pulsifer… maybe her many-times-great-granddaughter could help him, and he her.  _ May you be very happy together. _

There was a knock at the door as she finished writing a note for the milkman, and then it was time to go.


	24. Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is beginning to get more difficult, but only a week to go! If anyone has any particular requests for characters they'd like to see in the next week, or one- or two-word prompt ideas for the last day, please do let me know. Enjoy!

Adam opened his eyes on a beautiful garden, filled with exotic plants and delicious-looking fruits. The sun shone warmly, and somewhere in the distance he could hear running water. It reminded him of the summer holidays, when his parents would take him and his friends out for the day to run wild in some place that wasn’t Tadfield. Adam didn’t know where he was, but he  _ did  _ know it wasn’t Tadfield.

“Hello,” said a soft voice behind him. He didn’t jump; there was nothing startling about the voice. He felt as though nothing could unsettle him, not here.

“Hello,” he replied, turning around to see a woman smiling at him. She had dark skin, and shining eyes, and She was dressed in a robe of pure white. “Who are you?”

“An interesting question,” She told him, “this body resembles Eve’s, but I am not Eve.”

“God,” he realised, without understanding how he knew. “You’re God, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Adam. And I’m very proud of you. You did very well, saving the world.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have had to if you hadn’t made such a mess of looking after it.” Adam huffed. “Surely that’s  _ your  _ job, not mine.”

God looked a little put out by that.

“It’s all part of the Great-”

“I’m a bit sick of people making plans for me without asking me if I want anything to do with it,” Adam told Her. “I’m just a kid. I shouldn’t have to worry about being the Antichrist or saving the world. I should just be worrying about homework and school and where the best trees are for climbing.”

“You were very important-” God protested, but Adam wasn’t finished.

“And one of your angels tried to  _ shoot  _ me, that doesn’t seem very fair either. You weren’t even going to stop him!”

“My child,” God began, in a voice not unlike the one Adam’s mum used when she was trying to be infinitely patient but was just learning how finite her patience really was - and Adam saw red.

“I’m not your child, and you’re not my mother! Mothers don’t just drop the weight of the world on your shoulders and walk away, and they don’t just turn up to tell you they’re proud of you because you somehow guessed the right thing to do in their stupid plans! I’ve got a mother, and a father, and you’re not it!”

God frowned.

“Be careful, Adam. Be careful what you say to me-”

“And  _ mothers  _ don’t kick you out because you picked an apple, either. I don’t want anything to do with you, either.”

“Well, then.” God was furious, now, Adam could tell, but he didn’t care because he was furious too. “I suppose we have nothing more to say to one another.”

“I suppose not,” Adam agreed. “I’d like to wake up now.”

“I haven’t finished talking to you-” But Her voice was fading, now, becoming further and further away as Adam marched towards a wall that had suddenly become visible, a wall with a hole in it just large enough for him to fit through. “Adam. Adam! A-”

“-dam, wake up, sweetheart.”

He sat bolt upright, almost headbutting his mum in the face. Dog was licking his hand, and his mum was sitting on the edge of the bed beside him, gently shaking his shoulder. His dad was standing in the doorway, bleary-eyed.

“Mum?”

“You were dreaming, Adam, you were shouting in your sleep. Were you having a nightmare?”

Adam thought about that for a moment.

“No, it was a good dream. I’ll go back to sleep now. Sorry I woke you up.”

And with that, he closed his eyes on his mum’s baffled expression and slept. This time, he didn’t dream.


	25. Glorious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fancied a bit of a true form. Enjoy!

For a moment, all he could see was wings. Great, wide, feathery wings that seemed to glow with an unearthly energy. Then, eyes. So many eyes, turned in every direction, no two blinking at once - desperate to see, to know, to protect. Ribbons of a soft, dark colour, barely distinguishable from the night sky, wrapped around a core of red, like the embers left in the hearth just after the fire has been extinguished. And everywhere, everywhere, a sensation of majesty, of grandeur, of _glory_.

“Crowley,” he whispered, awestruck. “Crowley, you’re _glorious_.”

The eyes, the embers, the energy and the wings; they all folded in on themselves until they became _Crowley,_ Crowley in his normal human-shaped form. That form immediately draped itself across the sofa and put its sunglasses on.

“Nothing special,” he mumbled, “just an angel with the lights out.”

“With the lights out- _Crowley_. I don’t think you can ever have seen yourself. Oh, my dear, you’re truly magnificent.”

“Hush,” Crowley grumbled, but Aziraphale would not be hushed.

“You’ve been holding out on me all these years, telling me your true form was nothing special.”

“It’s not, angel. It’s _not,_ it’s just me. It’s just… just me.”

Aziraphale lifted Crowley’s legs so he could sit down, placing them gently back across his lap.

“ _Just you_ is quite a remarkable thing to be, my dear.”

And before the demon could grumble any more, he stopped his mouth with a kiss.


	26. Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst and general Crowley-hurting, sorry!
> 
> EDIT: Oh, and it's got a swear in it.

It wasn’t until the trials were over, dinner at the Ritz had been eaten and they were back at the bookshop that Crowley’s willpower failed completely.

Unable to maintain the illusion, he felt himself fall to the floor, powerless to stop himself. He’d complained a thousand times about the rug - _like a little old lady would have, really angel -_ but he found himself grateful for its presence as it softened his landing. Aziraphale followed him down, and Crowley wanted to scold him - _you’ll hurt your knees, angel -_ but the words wouldn’t come.

“Crowley? Crowley! What’s-?” Aziraphale reached out for him, flinched back at the last minute, and Crowley knew what he could see.

_“No! No!” Crowley’s limbs gave way to the pain surging through them and he crashed to the ground. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no!”_

_“What’s happening? I can feel something.” Crowley panicked, for a second - not Aziraphale, Aziraphale couldn’t feel like this, Crowley wouldn’t let him - but he wouldn’t have been speaking so calmly if he felt it the way Crowley did._

_“They did it,” he managed, “they told his father.”_

_“Oh, no.”_

_“And his Satanic father is not happy.” It was the understatement of the millennium; Crowley could feel Satan’s wrath pouring into him, racing through his veins in the form of pure pain, scalding, blinding. But there was no time for his suffering, not if they wanted to save the world, not if they were going to help the boy. Crowley engaged that same iron willpower that had driven the Bentley through the burning M25, and forced himself up, pain deafening him to the words of the humans around him._

_“Well, you can call me an old silly,” Aziraphale’s voice cut through the agony, “but it looks like the devil is coming. Satan himself.”_

_The ground shook; Crowley lurched over and fell again, but he couldn’t stop trying. He couldn’t stop trying to get up, to face what was coming like a demon. Well. He managed to sit up, at least, to fix his eyes on his angel._

_“Right. That was that. It was nice knowing you.”_

_“We can’t give up now.” That was his angel, so brave and yet so stupid; could he not see that it was over?_

_“This is Satan himself. It isn’t about Armageddon, this is personal. We are fucked!”_

_Aziraphale picked up his old sword, and Crowley felt a stab of something worse than Satan’s anger. Betrayal._

_“Come up with something, or…” Aziraphale brandished the sword, then lowered it. “...or I’ll never talk to you again.”_

_Crowley reached down within himself, to his very core, to the last vestiges of strength he possessed, and dragged up the dregs of his power. As time screeched to a halt, he felt his essence fracture, tearing at his corporation, and he spared what little was left of his control to knit his skin back together. There was no sense in scaring the boy now, not when they needed him focused. And through all the rest, through the bus ride and the ambush and the hellfire and the Ritz, he held himself together when he felt like he was going to come apart at the seams._

_Until he couldn’t any more. Until now._

“Crowley, what’s wrong?”

“Creature… of Hell.” Crowley would have given anything to be able to form a full sentence, to be able to reassure his angel. “Satan… power over…”

“Stop. Stop trying to speak, it’s all right.” Aziraphale’s hands fluttered over his body, never quite touching, examining the livid scars Crowley could no longer keep hidden. “It’s all right. You need- you need to rest, my dear.”

“Hurts,” Crowley whispered, and hoped that was explanation enough of how that was a very sweet but _completely useless_ suggestion.

“I know, my dear, I know- let me- will you let me?”

“Let-”

“Let me help you sleep,” Aziraphale insisted, “and I’ll heal you while you’re asleep. My divinity can’t be so very much right now.”

“Holy.” Crowley winced at the word. “Holy, holy.”

“Hush, dearest, you sound like a seraph.”

“Old habits,” Crowley croaked, and closed his eyes. “Help.”

“I shall, my dear.” He felt Aziraphale’s hand brush over his hair; _Somebody,_ even his hair hurt. “Ready?”

“Leave… leave something.” All those scars, his whole body a mess of welts and burns and bruises, and he’d earned those scars by standing up for something that mattered. “Scar. Leave one.”

“Yes, love.”

Crowley cracked one eye open; he couldn’t have heard that right. But Aziraphale was smiling down at him; it looked as if it was costing him to do so.

“Love?” Crowley whispered, and his angel nodded.

“I love you, Crowley. _Sleep._ ”

And Crowley slept, and the healing began.


	27. Road Trip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few days ago, I thought "who haven't we had yet?" and this prompt leapt out at me. It had to be this lot, really. Enjoy!

The Four Horsemen hadn’t met up since Pestilence’s retirement party, but somehow it felt as though they’d never been apart.

Death, of course, never changed. He rarely announced his presence, rarely spoke, but he always seemed to be there, waiting.

The other three, however, were glad of their decision to install short-range radios in their helmets. As they barrelled along the burning M25, doing their best to ignore the stench of burning fish, they were able to keep up a conversation even over the roar of their engines.

“Yellow car,” Pollution called, and War turned in her seat to get a good look.

“That’s a burned-out husk, how could you possibly tell?”

“Yellow car,” Pollution insisted.

“Yellow car,” conceded Famine, and War knew she was going to get punched in the arm later. Well, let them punch. War wasn’t averse to the odd punch flying in her own direction, given that it tended to kick off a great deal _more_ violence for everybody else.

“Anyone bring snacks?” War asked, as they pulled off the motorway and onto narrower, winding roads.

“No,” Famine snapped, “why would-?”

“Loads,” Pollution interrupted, and began rummaging in their pocket for something. War could see them patting themself down, no doubt seeking a packet of sweets or crisps or _something_ wrapped in plastic.

“Disgusting,” Famine sneered, as Pollution held up a packet of Skittles and swerved towards War to hand them over. War couldn’t see Death, who was behind her, let alone his face, but somehow she got the feeling he was smiling.

“Want some, Famine?” Pollution was rummaging in their pockets again, but they didn’t wait for a response before producing a pack of Rolos and beginning to tear away paper and foil, barely leaning a hand against the handlebars, letting the shredded materials fly away in their wake. One hit Famine’s visor and he snarled.

“When the world is ours-”

“I see I won’t be out of a job,” War interrupted, laughing. She felt alive, vibrant in a way one couldn’t be when trying to blend in with humanity. Armageddon was going to be fun.

They pulled up in the little village of Tadfield to ask for directions, only to find that they were nearly at their destination. It was almost a shame to bring an end to the road trip, but they had work to do.


	28. Culture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got away from me a bit, this one. Ineffable Wives! I thought they deserved an outing. Enjoy!

Crowley hissed at Aziraphale for daring to touch the door handle, then stepped out of the driver’s seat and hurried round to the passenger’s side.

“My lady,” she teased, and Aziraphale huffed at her.

“There’s really no need, Crowley, I’m quite as capable-”

“Ah- none of that. We agreed, didn’t we? We take it in turns to be chivalrous. Tonight it’s my turn.”

“Oh, very well.” The angel stepped out of the car and allowed Crowley to take her arm. “Thank you, my dear.” It was still strange to say it, after all those years of never openly acknowledging one another’s little gestures. Crowley seemed to think so, too.

“Come on. Opera. Hope it’s a good one this time.”

“Opera is  _ always  _ good, Crowley.”

“Mm. Wake me up in the interval.”

Of course, Crowley never slept during a performance, despite her snide comments. Aziraphale darted a glance across at her as the lights went down, drinking in the dim but delicious sight of her in her daringly-cut red dress, with a single ruby on a pendant that dangled invitingly in the dip between her breasts. Aziraphale couldn’t help but follow the path of the chain, which she knew was exactly why Crowley had worn the necklace in the first place. She was quite a contrast to Aziraphale, with her modest neckline in pastel blue, a string of pearls at her throat. Crowley caught her looking and smirked.

“Like what you see, angel?”

“I’m a dedicated patron of the arts,” Aziraphale told her haughtily. “Naturally I’m enjoying the performance.” The performance which, she realised with a blush, was already about ten minutes in, having started in earnest while she was busy staring at Crowley.

Crowley let her listen to the opera for two minutes before leaning in and resting a hand on her knee, drawing lazy circles with her finger.

“We could leave,” she murmured softly, “find somewhere to make our own music.”

“Crowley-” Aziraphale wasn’t sure if she meant to protest or agree, but she didn’t get a chance to do either.

“No, you’re right, I wouldn’t want to distract you from the story.” Crowley, in fact, had barely taken her eyes off the stage all the while. “You’ll want to know if the soldiers can carry off their disguises.”

“Disguises,” Aziraphale repeated blankly, “yes.”

“Well, then.” And Crowley folded her hands in her own lap, sitting demurely in her seat, and went back to watching the opera.

Aziraphale loved opera; she had seen this one on multiple occasions and never ceased to find something new to enjoy in each performance. She also loved Crowley, and never failed to find something new to enjoy in her. She was faced, now, with a choice. It was no choice at all. She watched Crowley.

“Beloved,” she whispered in Crowley’s ear as the lights came up, “I haven’t heard a single note. Let’s go home.”

“But it’s only the interval,” Crowley pointed out, “and this isn’t at all bad.”

“Then you must be prepared to be distracted,” Aziraphale warned, “you are temptation itself, and we  _ are  _ in a private box.”

“Oh, Heaven,” Crowley cursed, but she stayed in her seat. “Well, then. Do your worst.”

As the lights went down again, Aziraphale gave up all pretence of paying attention to the opera and miracled the armrests away from between their seats so that she could lie down with her head in Crowley’s lap. Crowley tensed, then began stroking her hair as the performance resumed. Aziraphale found her attention to the opera rather charming, so she didn’t try to distract her the way she was sure Crowley would have if their positions had been reversed. Instead she settled, letting the notes of the soaring arias wash over her, safe in her lover’s lap.

There would be time for distractions when they got home.


	29. Apocalypse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I'd go angsty for this one, sorry. Enjoy!
> 
> Warning: contains description of a panic attack.
> 
> Oh, and I'm still open to prompt suggestions for the free space on the 31st, if you have any requests. One word is ideal!

The world had ended.

Crowley knew the world had ended, because he felt as if every atom of his being was being scattered to the four winds, tossed beyond the pull of Earth’s atmosphere and flung into space. He knew it by the pain in his heart and the fear in his head and the horrible, cloying heat of the air choking his lungs. His surroundings had turned into nothing but blurry, indistinct shapes and distant sounds, the heavy drumming of his heart pounding in his ears.

He had woken from a peaceful, dreamless sleep to find the bed empty, and all at once the world had dropped away like a stone hurled into the ocean, never to be seen again. Aziraphale was gone; Aziraphale had left him, or been taken, and Crowley’s world had no meaning, no substance, no  _ form- _

“Crowley!” That familiar voice cut through the drumming, those familiar hands touched his cheeks, and all at once the world came back into focus. His angel came back into focus.

“Angel-” He threw himself forward and clung to Aziraphale’s shirt, sobbing uncontrollably. “I thought they’d come back for you.”

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale picked him up as if his weight was nothing so that he could settle them more comfortably together on the bed. “I’m sorry, my dear. I’m here; we’re safe. I’m here.”

It took longer than Crowley would have liked for the panic to subside, for his muscles to relax and his tears to dry, and then he was left feeling drained and embarrassed, curled against his angel.

“I thought they’d taken you,” he told Aziraphale again, quietly, “you weren’t there.”

“Oh, my love, I am sorry. I should have realised- with everything that’s happened- I was just fetching something to eat.” He was running his fingers through Crowley’s hair, infinitely gentle. “It’s been almost a week, and I thought-”

“You stayed with me for a week?” Crowley frowned. “While I was sleeping?”

“Well, yes. Should I have left you to it?”

“No.  _ No. _ ” Surely his foolish reaction to waking alone was answer enough to that question. “But- weren’t you bored?”

“Never, not with you.” Aziraphale pulled him a little closer and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Sleep all you like, my dear. You worked so hard to avert the apocalypse, you must be exhausted.”

“But-” Aziraphale had kissed his forehead; before that, he had tucked them both into Crowley’s bed without so much as a moment’s hesitation. Crowley would dearly like to know what that meant. “We should talk-”

“We can talk when you’re awake, dear.”

“But-” There was no point in arguing when Aziraphale had that look on his face; besides, he  _ was  _ exhausted. Fear could be exhausting, and so could driving a burning car and stopping time. “If you leave,” he mumbled, ashamed of the request, “will you wake me up first?”

“Of course, my dear. Now sleep.”

And Crowley slept, and the world kept turning.


	30. The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is later than usual, I've been baking all day.
> 
> Still taking prompts for tomorrow if there's anything particular you'd like to see. Enjoy!

The end came not with a bang, but with the quiet slither of an empty envelope onto a kitchen table.

Aziraphale stared at the letter in his hand for several seconds before his eyes managed to focus on it. Next to him, Crowley was shifting a similar paper from hand to hand, as if contact with it stung. Aziraphale reached out without taking his eyes off his own letter and, taking the paper from Crowley’s hand, laid it flat on the table. It burned to the touch; Crowley made an incoherent, but undoubtedly worried noise and leant over to read.

Aziraphale’s letter ran as followed.

_Dear Aziraphale, former Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate (retired),_

_This communication serves as notice of your immediate termination from the Army of Heaven, the Forces of Good, the Heavenly Choirs and any other affiliations you may have with our organisation. The reasons for the termination are as follows:_

  * _Corporate sabotage_


  * _Fraternisation with enemy agents_


  * _Contravention of Heavenly orders_



_Any of the above are fireable offences, but it would appear that actually firing you is ineffective. We are therefore terminating your employment, effective immediately. You may not appeal this decision, and this decision is final._

_Sincerely,_

_The Archangel Michael_

_The Archangel Gabriel_

_The Archangel Uriel_

_The Archangel Sandalphon_

_Angelic Terminations Committee._

Aziraphale laid his letter down on the table so Crowley could look; Crowley gestured wordlessly at his own letter, which Aziraphale took as an invitation to do likewise.

_Traitor Crowley,_

_You’re sacked, get lost._

_Hell._

“Well,” Aziraphale said lightly, after a moment in which they both silently processed this information, “I suppose that’s that.”

“I suppose it is,” Crowley agreed, and they sat there a while longer among the remains of what had, prior to the arrival of the post, been a rather nice breakfast.

“Weird,” Crowley admitted, as he handed Aziraphale a plate to dry, the human way, “not working for them anymore.”

“Yes. No more little blessings,” Aziraphale pointed out, “no more little temptations.”

“Oh, we still can. Just… on our own terms.”

“Yes. Our own terms,” Aziraphale repeated, trying not to show how much the idea unsettled him, and put the plate back in the cupboard.

“Freedom,” Aziraphale ventured, as they walked through St James’ Park together. “I suppose that’s how we should look at it.”

“Not worried about the black mark on your record, are you, angel?”

“Oh, well, I suppose not. Still, a dishonourable discharge. Not the way I hoped it would end.”

“There’s nothing dishonourable about you.” Crowley leaned his weight sideways suddenly, nudging Aziraphale across the path. “They’re the ones with the problem. Promise.”

“No, of course. I’m not worried.”

As they went to bed that night, Crowley stopped abruptly, still holding the undone length of Aziraphale’s bowtie.

“You know it’s all right, don’t you, angel?”

“Well, yes. It’s not as if I wanted to work for them, after all. It’s just that… well, I’ve never _been_ fired before.”

“Worried the boss hates you now?” Crowley sighed. “She doesn’t. You’d have Fallen.”

“Haven’t I? I’m not an angel any more.”

“You’re not working for _Heaven_ any more. There’s a difference. Trust me, if She was cross with you, you’d know.”

“I suppose so,” Aziraphale admitted. Then a wicked thought occurred to him. “Still. I suppose this means I’m allowed to be as sinful as I like, now.”

“Oh, _really?”_ Crowley smiled that toothy smile of his. “What did you have in mind?”

Later, as he watched Crowley sink into sleep, Aziraphale thought that it had all ended rather well, actually.


	31. Free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was a free space, but I cheated a bit to give myself a prompt here. Anyway, thank you for joining me in celebrating the 30th/1st Anniversary of _Good Omens_ this month - it's been fun for me, so I hope you've enjoyed all these fics too. And, of course, I hope you'll enjoy this one.
> 
> The next thing I post will probably be my contribution to the Good AUmens event, which starts tomorrow - my posting date is in a few days, so hopefully I'll see you all then. If you have Tumblr, I recommend following go-events so you can easily find all the fantastic AUs that are about to start posting!

One week after the world didn’t end, Adam Young sat down on his bed, closed his eyes, and opened his mind, reaching out with those otherworldly senses that had awoken and never quite gone away.

In his mind’s eye, he saw his mother and father downstairs, laughing at a sitcom on the television. He saw R.P. Tyler down the road, writing an angry letter about apple thieves to the local newspaper. He saw Pepper drawing, and Brian racing his toy cars, and Wensleydale reading, each in their own homes and at the hearts of their own families. 

He saw Anathema unpinning the last pieces of her Antichrist conspiracy board, and Newt wrapping his arms around her from behind, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek so that she turned to face him and kiss him back.

He saw Tracy, packing her treasured possessions carefully into boxes, and he saw Sergeant Shadwell, hair combed and clutching a bouquet of flowers, rehearsing a heartfelt apology and a confession under his breath.

He saw an angel and a demon, sitting close together on a very old sofa as Aziraphale read a sonnet aloud, glancing at Crowley every few seconds as if to see if his meaning was understood. He saw Crowley gazing back with an expression of such love that there was no way Aziraphale couldn’t feel it.

He saw War, and Pollution, and Famine, and knew that they could not be destroyed by just four children - but he also knew that they could be stopped, and if four children working together could defeat them temporarily, surely all of humanity working together really could destroy them, if they really tried. He saw Death, and nodded in greeting. Some things could not be stopped, but worked just as they should.

He saw Dog, trotting up the stairs with a ball in his mouth, ready to play.

He opened his eyes and smiled. For the first time since all the Apocalypse stuff started happening, since he’d met Dog and realised he could change things, he felt like everything was right with the world. He felt free.

The Earth was free.


End file.
